The Ghost and Mr Jane
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Jane is visited by the ghost of his dead wife.  Not as hokey as it sounds, I promise.  Humor, romance, eventual Jisbon. Set in Season 4. Spoilers up to and including 4x15. Adult language and situations. No copyright infringement intended.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So I was in the middle of writing the first chapter for my new "Moonlight" fic, and this crazy idea occurred to me. I know there must be other stories out there using the blatant plot device of Angela Jane's ghost, but I purposefully didn't read them, so any similarities between those and mine are purely coincidental.

I know there are those out there who followed me bravely into my other extreme AU fics, so if you liked those, I beg your indulgence once again. I can't promise it will be free of clichés, but I can promise there will be absolutely no use of potter's wheels (except perhaps a humorous allusion or two). Please give this story a try and I'll try to make it fun and amusing, with only a small mixture of angst along the way. So, my loyal, adventurous readers, get ready to suspend your skepticism and join me for a bit of supernatural romance…

**The Ghost and Mr. Jane**

**Chapter 1**

The first time Patrick Jane actually saw his dead wife was in the mirror over his left shoulder. He'd been shaving in the bathroom of his cheap extended stay motel, and he'd caught a glimpse of light brown hair, felt the touch of a cold hand on his bare back. He literally jumped, the razor slipping in his hand, blood oozing from the stinging wound on his cream-covered jaw. He let out a strangled bark of surprise.

Heedless of his injury, Jane spun around, only to be faced with the emptiness of the motel's Spartan bathroom. He gulped, pulse racing, and walked on shaking legs out of the bathroom into the bedroom. No one was there either, and one glance at the chain still in place on the door told him he'd had no intruders. He shook his head at himself, managed a light chuckle, though his heart still pounded loudly in his chest.

"No more late-night Mexican food for you, Jane," he said aloud to the empty room.

He returned to the bathroom, looking in disgust at the rivulet of blood that had run down his neck and onto his chest. On closer examination, he saw that the cut was deep enough to suffer the embarrassment of wearing a Band-aid to work. He grabbed some toilet paper and pressed it to his wound with his left hand while awkwardly shaving his other cheek with his right.

His eyes still flew from his task to the reflection of the tile wall behind his back, as if expecting to see the ghostly image again. But Jane didn't believe in ghosts, so of course he attributed this first contact to spicy food and lack of sleep. He rinsed his face and chest of the remaining shaving cream and blood, applied the offending bandage and walked to the closet, a towel wrapped low around his hips. It was then that he heard her voice.

"Patrick," said the ghost of Angela Jane. "You've let yourself go."

He turned abruptly from the closet, and there she was, sitting on the edge of his bed, her head tilted as she evaluated his naked torso. His aching jaw dropped and he stared wide-eyed at the beautiful manifestation of his dead wife. He tried shaking his head again to clear it, then closing and opening his eyes. But she was still there, still talking.

"You used to be up before sunrise, jogging on the beach or swimming in the ocean. Then there were the hundred crunches on the floor beside our bed—my morning wake-up call. But look at you now, Patrick," she said in amusement. "You're starting to look a little soft around the middle."

His hand went involuntarily to his stomach as he finally managed one word: "Angela?"

The ghost nodded. "Of course it's me. It's not as if you were expecting some other woman waiting to ogle you in this cheap dive." She looked around the dingy room in disgust. "Not that you've had _any_ women over the last nine years ogling you in the altogether. What's up with _that_?"

"I—what?"

Jane's head was spinning. He was obviously having some sort of mental breakdown, perhaps building up since the emotional upheaval he'd felt after he'd kissed Erica Flynn two weeks before. Or maybe it was some residual damage from his recent near-drowning. But Jane had honestly felt like he'd been doing better the past few months, stronger in every way. Why was he hallucinating now? He felt his head with one trembling hand—he didn't feel feverish. When he looked at the specter again, he suddenly became light headed.

"Sit down before you fall down," she advised him wryly, inclining her head toward the couch in the small sitting area.

He took her advice, dropping onto the brown Nogahide with a whoosh of expelled air.

"Deep breaths, Patrick," said the ghost. "You're not going crazy. It's really me."

"But how? There are no such things-"

"As ghosts? Oh, come on. Of course there are. You've been talking to me nearly every day for years."

"It was just a way to comfort myself," he denied. "Even now, you're just a manifestation of my imagination and my—"

"Stop the psychobabble, Patrick. You've always been a sensory sort of guy. What are your senses telling you now?

"That I'm seeing my dead wife and that I've finally gone round the bend."

She laughed, and it was the same tinkling sound that had haunted dreams. "Oh, how I've missed you, my love," she said affectionately. "You could always make me laugh. You're far from insane, though. As a matter of fact, when you actually were slightly insane once upon a time, I made sure to stay away, much as I'd wished I could be there for you. But seeing me then would have definitely pushed you over the edge. These days, you're in a much better place, Patrick, better able to handle a visit from the Great Beyond." She gestured dramatically with her hands, her eyes alight with amusement.

He stared at her, believing now that he must be having one of the best dreams he'd had in years. Angela was as beautiful as the last morning he'd seen her-silky hair, intelligent brown eyes, sensual lips. She was wearing his favorite dress of hers—a simple black sundress with spaghetti straps. It enhanced her delicate décolletage and showed off her shapely, tanned legs. And she was barefoot, as she usually was around the house. He decided then and there to stop fighting it and enjoy this gift his subconscious had bestowed upon him.

"Why now, then, if I'm doing so much better? Don't you think that seeing you just might set me back a few steps?"

She shrugged her slim shoulders. "I'm here because you need a little nudge in the right direction on some things, if you're ever going to be happy again."

He felt his eyes watering as the shock began to wear off. It was slowly sinking in that Angela, no matter how or why, was sitting right in front of him, gently prodding him and telling him the unvarnished truth, just like she used to.

"How can I be happy?" he said brokenly. "You're dead. Charlotte's—"

At that moment Jane's cell phone rang from its place on the small dining table in the kitchenette. He jumped a little at the harsh interruption.

"You gonna get that?" Angela asked. "It's Teresa."

It rang a couple more times before he gathered his wits about him and rose to answer his phone. It was Lisbon, just like she'd said.

"Hello, " he said absently.

"Jane. Where the hell are you? CSU is about done with the body—"

"Sorry, Lisbon, I—" His gaze went back to the bed, but the ghost was gone. He paused in surprise, then tried to refocus on Lisbon's voice in his ear.

"Jane?"

"I'm on my way," he said, disconnecting. He walked over to the bed, felt the place where Angela had sat. It was cold, and there wasn't even an indentation in the bedspread. No one had been there, just like he'd known all along.

"Okay, Subconscious," he said. "I want to wake up now."

But nothing changed. He didn't wake up.

"Angela?" he tentatively asked the empty room. But she didn't reappear.

Jane gave a shuddering sigh and returned to his closet.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane sat at the stoplight, preoccupied with thoughts of his unearthly visitor, or more accurately, the figment of his imagination. Dream or no dream, hallucination or not, it had been so good to see Angela again. Over the years he'd been dismayed to note that his memory of her had faded, that he'd forgotten the little things about her features that he had once known so intimately. In a way he was grateful that his brain had so beautifully reconstructed her in his mind's eye, down to the small laugh lines on her cheeks and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. Still, hadn't he tortured himself enough already without so vividly bringing her back to life?

The tears he'd been holding in check threatened again, and he blinked rapidly against them. It wouldn't do for Lisbon to see that he'd been crying.

From the corner of his eye he saw his wife, sitting comfortably in the seat beside him where a second before it had been empty.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, one hand going to his chest. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Angela chuckled at his discomfiture. "The light's green; people are going to start honking at you." Sure enough, the car behind him gave a warning toot of his horn, and Jane floored it, driving quickly across the intersection toward the freeway entrance. She grasped the door's armrest for dear life. "Still driving like a maniac, I see."

"What do you care?" he asked in annoyance. "You're already dead."

"Well, that's not a very nice thing to say, Patrick."

"Look, it's wonderful to see you again, Angela, but you and I both know there's no way I'm really talking to your ghost right now. Any minute I'm going to wake up in my bed and reality will hit me like a sledgehammer. In some ways, seeing you like this, so animated, so full of life, is going to be worse that the endless nightmares I've had over the years. To be honest, it hurts to see you like this, so I wish you'd just leave me alone and let me try to deal with the pain of losing you again once you disappear."

"What can I do to make you believe that I'm really here with you, that you're not dreaming. You want me to ask God to make it rain inside the car?"

"I thought only George Burns could do that."

She grinned. "It's sad to see you so pessimistic; you didn't used to be. I guess all I can do is hang out with you until you believe in miracles again."

"You'll be wasting both our times," Jane said wearily, merging now into morning traffic.

"I can't believe you're driving the Citroen," she said, ignoring his sour mood. "Out of all your expensive collection of classic cars, you chose this piece of crap."

"You sound like Lisbon," he said numbly.

"Well, maybe you should listen to her more. The woman knows what she's talking about."

Jane didn't reply, so they sat in silence awhile, Jane trying to avoid looking to his right. Just when he thought she might have gone, she spoke again, pointing out the passenger side window.

"It's just up here," she told him. They went over a rise, and, just as she'd said, Jane spied the highway patrol cars and the familiar CBI SUV parked on the side of the road. He pulled in behind it, his eyes involuntarily going to his passenger.

"No one else can see me," she told him, reading his mind.

"If I slip and talk to you, they'll think I'm nuts."

"So don't slip. Besides, they already think you're nuts," she said, grinning mischievously.

He couldn't help smiling a little at that; she was probably right. When Jane got out of his car, Cho was the first to greet him-well, if you could call it a greeting. No pointless small talk for Kimball Cho.

"Victim's a woman, early twenties, stabbed in another location and likely thrown out of a vehicle," he informed Jane in his typical monotone. "No sign of sexual assault."

"Not another one," commented Jane under his breath, tired suddenly of crimes against young girls.

Jane followed his colleague to the location of the victim, where Rigsby and Lisbon stood talking to the Crime Scene Unit.

"There you are," said Lisbon, excusing herself and joining Jane as he squatted beside the body where it lay in the brown grass ten feet from the pavement.

"What took you so long?" Lisbon asked, her concern more personal than a boss's should be.

_She must be able to see how off balance I seem._

"You're right," said Angela, and a startled Jane squinted up to see his wife's ghost standing there, the morning sun behind her, watching them with keen interest. "Snap out of it."

He made himself return Lisbon's gaze with his usual mild grin. "Perfection like this takes time, Lisbon," he told her. Of course he was only wearing his usual uniform of expensive ten-year-old suit and slightly wrinkled dress shirt. He flushed a little when Lisbon's eyes zeroed in on the Band-aid on his face.

"Plus, I had a bit of an accident with the razor," he confessed, trying to focus now on doing his job and not on the spectral image of his dead wife.

Lisbon's expression remained wary, but the faster Jane finished his examination of the victim, the faster they could get on with the investigation and find her killer.

"So, what do you think?" she prompted. Jane forced himself to sniff, to look at the body from all available angles. She'd been stabbed several times with something small and imprecise—a screw driver perhaps—and her formal gown was soaked in blood.

"She's a Jane Doe for the moment," Lisbon was saying. "No purse, no phone, no ID of any kind."

"It's like I'm looking at Cinderella right after the clock struck twelve," he mused. "She wasn't used to going to a fancy ball like she'd attended. Her nails are newly manicured, but not expertly so; she probably did them herself. Her makeup is too heavy, her perfume too cloying. And look—Cinderella is missing a shoe. The one she has on is a cheap designer knock-off. Any sign of her carriage? No old pumpkins lying around?"

"She was dumped here, but there are new tire marks on the freeway shoulder nearby. Forensics took some pictures and hopefully we'll have a lead on what vehicle might have made them. Rigsby thinks it was a high dollar sports car—maybe a Ferrari."

"Aw, no doubt her Prince Charming's conveyance." Jane stood, dusting his hands off. "I'd say her killer was her date, some guy way above her station that she was trying to impress without the means to do so." He nodded morosely at the woman. "Obviously her plan didn't work. Find her missing shoe, Lisbon, and you'll have your suspect."

"I'm sure he's disposed of her shoe by now," Lisbon said, enjoying his fairy tale allusions in spite of herself.

A noncommittal noise arose from his throat. "Only time will tell," he said.

"Excellent job, Patrick," Angela said proudly.

"Thanks," replied Jane without thinking.

"Thanks for what?" asked Lisbon. She followed his gaze to the emptiness behind them.

"Oh, uh, for listening to my nonsense."

He was saved from explaining himself further when the rest of the team joined them.

"What happened to you?" Rigsby asked, noting his bandaged jaw.

"Nothing much. You should see the other guy," Jane said dryly.

The coroner's van arrived and the team stood back as the dead woman's body was zipped into its black bag. Angela stood close beside him, and Jane looked away as the victim's face disappeared behind the zipper. Whenever he saw this achingly familiar sight, he always flashed back to the night of his family's murders, how the police had had to hold him back as their bodies were loaded into just such a van. Usually he was long gone from the crime scene when the coroner took away the body.

"Don't think about it," said Angela softly.

He looked at her like _she_ was the crazy one.

Lisbon noticed his distraction, the strange expressions shadowing his handsome features, and came to stand beside him, her forehead wrinkled with worry.

"Are you okay?" she asked discreetly, lightly touching his forearm.

Maybe he was having one of his bad days. Was it some significant anniversary she was missing?

He smiled by way of reassurance. "I'm fine, Lisbon. Just having an off day, I guess. No need for the mother hen treatment, I assure you."

She frowned, not taking the bait. She knew he sometimes got her riled up to distract her from the real issue at hand. "Let me know if you need to talk," she told him sincerely, dropping her hand. "I'll see you back at HQ."

"Sure thing."

Jane waved to Cho and Rigsby and headed back to the shoulder where his Citroen was parked.

"She's in love with you, you know," said his wife, and he stopped short, his head whipping around to stare at her in amazement. She continued, undaunted. "She's only recently come to realize it, although she's felt that way about you from almost the beginning."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded tightly. "We're just friends."

She smiled at his defensive tone. "Oh, Patrick, you know it's true. The signs are all there; you've just been ignoring them because it's safer that way."

He continued walking now, his pace quickening, as if he could outrun a ghost. He got into the car and started the engine, signaling to merge back into traffic. He felt Angela's presence beside him although the passenger side door had neither opened nor closed.

"You want to know why I'm really here?" asked the ghost. "It's so you don't screw this up with her."

"I thought I was the one imagining things," he told her, his eyes remaining resolutely on the road.

She smiled enigmatically. "To quote a wise man I once knew: 'Only time will tell.'"

A/N: Are you still with me? Well, thanks for taking the chance! Is it too off-the-wall to continue? I really want to know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow! Thanks so much for the wonderful response to my first chapter! I really hope I can live up to your expectations. It's very gratifying to see so many new readers too. Welcome!

I'm glad I'm keeping some of you guessing as to whether Angela is really haunting Jane or if she's all in his head. If Jane were really in this situation, I think he'd feel very tortured about having to question his own sanity. I mean, he can usually spy a nut job a mile away…

**Chapter 2**

Jane was blessedly alone when he walked into CBI Headquarters, his supernatural shadow having deserted him for the moment. He'd beaten the rest of the team back to HQ, but Van Pelt had been there all morning, manning the computer and phone and doing a lot of her usual waiting around. He met her in the break room while he was preparing his morning tea.

"Good morning, Grace," he said pleasantly, though he wasn't feeling particularly pleasant at the moment.

"Morning, Jane. The others coming?" She set down a white baker's box on the counter.

"Right behind me. Hey! Muffins!"

He extracted a beautiful blueberry specimen, grateful he'd gotten to them before Rigsby.

She grinned at him. "You're welcome."

"Have you checked around for any formal dances or events in the area last night?" Jane asked over a mouthful of muffin.

"Still working on that." She poured herself a cup of coffee. "Well, enjoy your breakfast."

Jane toasted her with his half-eaten muffin, swallowing. "Thanks, Grace."

He turned back to the electric teakettle, busying himself by getting out his favorite teacup and saucer.

"You know how many calories are in each one of those carb bombs?" asked Angela. "No wonder you're getting paunchy."

Jane froze, then closed his eyes against the painful realization that his subconscious was at it again, messing with his perception. He turned slowly to find her there, casually leaning against the center island. She cocked an eyebrow at his resigned expression.

"Oh, Patrick, I didn't think you'd need so much convincing about me."

"I'm convinced I've lost my ever-loving mind," he whispered back, glancing around nervously.

"Speaking of bombs," said Angela. "That Grace is a lovely girl. Too bad she could explode any day now."

Jane looked bewildered a moment at the sudden change of subject. He wasn't used to being taken off guard so easily. It made him skittish and unconfident, and for a man with his quick intellect and normally cool head, it was the worst feeling in the world.

"I've been watching her," he said, only a little defensively.

"You could be doing more than watching," she chided. "You could be helping her."

"She hasn't asked for my help—"

"Yes, she has. She asked if you ever talk to me. Then, instead of giving her any real insight, you put it all back on her."

Jane went the refrigerator and retrieved the milk, then poured it into his cup, hating the way his hand shook slightly.

"I'm not a social worker," he said. He wondered where all this was coming from. His own guilt? If this were really just his conscience and not a ghost, deep down, he must have been feeling guilty for giving Van Pelt the brush-off.

"She saw her fiancé's ghost you know," Angela reminded him. "I think it did her good, allowed her to put to rest some of her questions. You thought she'd just been hallucinating because of her accident."

"She was, just like I am now."

"I could do the same for you, if you'd let me. I know you have questions-"

He recoiled in horror. "No!" The questions he had concerning hers and Charlottes' last moments on earth were too painful to put a voice to, even though they'd tormented him every day since Red John slit their throats.

"No," he said again, more quietly this time, but with more finality. The ghost allowed him to let it go…for now.

Jane finished preparing his tea in silence and took it and his muffin into the empty bullpen and to his couch. He was perturbed to see Angela sitting comfortably in his usual place. She bounced on the worn leather.

"This is comfy. I can see why you spend so much time here." Her comment held a note of chastisement for what was beginning to be a running theme with her.

"I don't sleep much at night." He took the place beside her and brought the steaming tea to his lips.

"I know," she said softly. He could see her hand resting on his thigh, but he felt nothing except a faint chill passing through him. "Hopefully I'll be able to help you with that."

At that moment, Van Pelt returned to her desk and looked curiously at Jane, who seemed fascinated with his pant leg. His head moved quickly up and then right, then focused on Van Pelt. He forced a benign smile. The rest of the team was arriving, and Van Pelt had some good news for Lisbon.

"Hey, Boss. I've got a list of five formal events in Sacramento last night. Two charity balls, a sweet sixteen party, a wedding reception and a bah mitzvah."

"Hmm," replied Lisbon, her eyes sliding to a silent Jane. "Any ideas which one our Jane Doe might have attended?"

Jane tried to think clearly, but Angela's hand remained on his thigh, and he was in the presence of the woman his dead wife claimed was in love with him. It was so awkward and surreal in so many ways that he was having a difficult time concentrating.

"Uh…"

"Cat got your tongue?" asked his wife. He shot her a dirty look and turned in time to see Lisbon's brow furrowing again.

"Try the wedding reception," he finally managed.  
>"As good a place as any. You have names of the happy couple?" Lisbon asked Van Pelt.<p>

"Yes." She brought up a page on her computer. "Maggie and John McCoy."

"Jane and I will try to talk to the workers at the reception, maybe see if we can get a wedding list, as well as talk to the families who hosted it. Cho, you and Rigsby start checking out those charity events."

"Sure thing, Boss," said Rigsby, going to stand by Van Pelt to wait for the printout of the party venues. She had also printed off pictures of the victim Rigsby had sent her from the crime scene.

"Jane," said Lisbon from the bullpen door. "You coming or what?"

"Yeah," he said absently, rising to his feet. He nodded to Grace, who was left with the job of plugging in the victim's picture into facial identification software.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Jane rode shotgun in the company SUV while he and Lisbon headed for the hotel where the McCoy wedding had been held. Jane glanced in the sun visor's vanity mirror and saw Angela sitting in the backseat, grinning.

"Seriously?" he muttered beneath his breath.

Angela's grin widened. "It's been a long time since I rode in a cop car. Although this one doesn't have vomit on the floorboard. You've moved up in life, Patty."

Jane smiled in spite of himself, memories flooding his mind of their occasional scrapes with the law as carnie teenagers.

"Seriously what?" asked Lisbon.

He paused a beat, then: "Don't you ever get tired of murder investigations Lisbon?"

"Every damn time; call it an occupational hazard. Why? Are you not feeling up to this one? You've been acting a little…_off_ this morning."

"She's really concerned about you," commented Angela.

"You're a good _friend_ for all your concern, Teresa," he said for the ghost's benefit. He sighed. "I don't know. Today, I do feel off, for want of a better description. But tell me, have I seemed…strange lately?"

"No more than usual. But you've had a lot going on emotionally the past few months. Red John's reappearance. The FBI investigation. Your memory loss. Erica Flynn. I wouldn't blame you if you were feeling drained. Why don't you take some time off?"

"See?" intoned Angela. He caught a glimpse of her raised eyebrow in the mirror.

"And what would you do without me?" he asked Lisbon.

"Oh, I think we'd manage." Her lips twitched.

"You _should_ take a vacation, Patrick," said Angela. "Go to the beach. You love the beach."

"No," Jane said through clenched teeth, replying to Angela, but in effect answering Lisbon.

"Don't be so grumpy," Lisbon said. "It was just a suggestion."

"You know, it's funny how she lumped Erica Flynn in with that list of your recent emotional upheavals," said Angela from behind them. "It was just a kiss, although you obviously were into it. I seriously question your choice of women, but I understand it. She's beautiful and she excited you both intellectually and physically. It only goes to show you need that in your life, Patrick."

Jane's eyes flew to the mirror, and he felt the familiar stab of guilt.

_She saw that? Wait, this isn't really Angela, Jane._

He ran a nervous hand through his hair. This was getting to be too much.

"Of course I saw it. Don't feel guilty on my account, though." She sighed, shaking her head. "But that's not the point at all, Patrick. The point is, Teresa was jealous. You recognized it the whole time that Flynn woman was around, and yet you haven't given it much thought since."

"Jane," Lisbon was saying. He was staring into the mirror, appearing to be studying himself intently.

"Jane," she repeated. She reached over and jostled his arm a little. "We're here."

Jane seemed suddenly to wake up, startled to see they were parked in front of a hotel, the engine of the car off, Lisbon's brow furrowed once again in apprehension.

"Oh," he said. He reached automatically for the door handle, as the valet came to open his door. Lisbon's eyes were still upon him as she flashed the attendant her badge and she followed Jane inside the building. She was really starting to worry about him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The manager of the hotel was helpful enough, giving them the contact information for the hosts of the wedding reception. A few of the wait staff who had also worked the night before recognized the picture of the victim, so Lisbon and Jane went into the ballroom where hotel employees were putting the room to rights. Angela's ghost stood nearby, watching how well Jane and Lisbon worked together- interviewing, probing the minds of the witnesses. Jane tried his best not to look at Angela and concentrate on the case, but he was constantly aware that she stood just on the fringes of his peripheral vision, observing their interactions closely.

Lisbon pulled out her phone to give Cho an update, but couldn't get reception.

"Dammit. I'll be right back," she said to Jane. He watched her head out the door of the ballroom as if she were leaving him alone in a pit of vipers. He wished he smoked or took prescription drugs—anything to calm his frayed nerves.

"I'm not that bad, am I?" asked Angela in amusement. He avoided looking at her in the hopes she might disappear.

"I need a drink," said Patrick Jane for the first time in years.

"Take a right into the lobby and the lounge is across from the fountain," supplied a passing hotel employee helpfully, carrying an armload of folding chairs.

"Uh, thanks," said Jane.

The lounge was relatively empty, understandable because it was ten o'clock in the morning. He took a place at the bar and ordered whiskey, downing the shot and asking for another before he realized that once again, Angela was sitting beside him.

"Patrick," she chided, "this isn't the way to deal with things."

"Go away for good and I'll stop," he mumbled, so as to not draw undue attention to the crazy guy talking to himself at the bar.

"I can't until you believe in me and really listen to what I'm telling you."

Jane saw that the bartender was busy in the back, so he risked turning to the figure beside him. "You want me to believe in you? Well here's what got to happen. Either I get some sort of tangible proof that you actually exist, or my next step is to check myself in to a mental facility. It's not like I haven't done it before…"

"What kind of proof?" she asked. "What would it take to make you trust your own senses?"

"I don't know—do something that others can sense too, so I know you're really present. And not something that I'll automatically write off as a coincidence, either, or something that I can explain away as something I created all in my head."

"I can't make others see or hear me, if that's what you want," she said. "I'm only here for you."

Jane shrugged and downed his second shot. He glanced at the clock over the bar. "You have exactly five minutes, or I'm finding the nearest padded cell."

The ghost apparently saw that he was serious, for she suddenly closed her eyes and seemed lost in her own ghostly thoughts. At that moment, Lisbon entered the lounge, making a beeline for the bar.

"There you are," she said testily. "What's the big idea, drinking at ten in the morning? What the hell is going on with you, Jane?"

Before Jane could reply, he saw Angela look briefly toward the heavens and wink at him knowingly.

A second later, the earth began to quake.

A/N: So will he believe in her now? Tune in for the next chapter to find out. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks again for those of you hanging in there for this crazy little fic. I really appreciate all the kind reviews! I struggled with this chapter, I have to say, but I hope it turned out to your liking. It focuses a little more on the case, but I tried not to make it too boring, and wanted the case to merely be a vehicle for Jane's introspection and Angela's plan. Above all, this fic is a romance, after all…

**Chapter 3**

Lisbon glanced at Jane as the glasses and bottles behind the bar began to clink together, the hanging lamps over the tables commenced to swaying, and the floor beneath their feet shook violently. He sat on his barstool, frozen to the spot, staring at the empty stool beside him with wide eyes.

"Jane, get under here," she exclaimed, pulling him down from the barstool to take cover beneath the overhanging bar. He complied wordlessly as the earthquake continued for about thirty seconds, then abruptly stopped. They waited there another minute in case of aftershocks. The few people in the lounge began to emerge from beneath their tables, talking loudly about the quake, guessing the strength of it, comparing it to other recent quakes or worse ones as Californians were wont to do.

"Geeze," Lisbon said. "That was a good one."

"Yeah," Jane said. "Let's get out of here, in case there's another one." He looked again to his right, as if seeking approval.

"So, do you believe in me now?" asked the ghost. "Or do you need another one?"

She looked toward the heavens again. "No! I believe you," he whispered frantically.

"Good," said Angela.

"What?" Lisbon asked.

Jane cleared his throat. "I said I believe it was about a 6 on the Richter scale," he replied to cover the blunder of speaking to Angela aloud.

"That sounds about right," Lisbon agreed; the concerned expression now seemed to be permanently tattooed upon her face.

Seeing no damage within the lounge, no one in need of their help, Jane took out his wallet and tossed a few bills on the bar, nodding farewell to the bartender. He and Lisbon left the lounge, the ghost of Angela Jane walking beside them.

The SUV was still where they'd left it, and as soon as Jane and Lisbon were inside, Lisbon turned to him.

"Now, before we were so rudely interrupted by that earthquake, you were about to tell me what the hell is wrong with you today."

Jane stole a glance in the vanity mirror and saw Angela behind them, smiling while humming the old song, _I Feel the Earth Move._

Jane grinned. "Nothing, Lisbon. Just a bad morning. You know how I am sometimes. I'm fine now though. That earthquake literally shook me out of my miasma."

But she was still skeptical. "Really? Because it's highly unlike you to be knocking back shots at ten o'clock in the morning."

"What can I say? I woke up feeling particularly…_haunted _this morning." He caught Angela's smiling eyes again, and the ghost laughed at his cleverness. "Please, stop worrying," he said to Lisbon. "Let's focus on this case, all right? Next stop, the McCoy's?"

"Yeah," she replied, and pointed the car toward the old money part of town. But when she caught him smiling at his own reflection in the mirror, she was still worried.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The McCoy's mansion was only accessible through a locked gate and a camera. Lisbon rolled down her window and pressed the call button.

"McCoy residence," came the proper voice of an English butler. "May I have your name please?" Lisbon rolled her eyes, and held her badge up to the camera.

"Agent Teresa Lisbon, CBI. I need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. McCoy please."

"What is this regarding, Miss?"

"Official police business. We have a few questions for the McCoy's. If we have to, we'll come back with a warrant which will allow us to search every nook and cranny of the entire house."

There was a pause, then the gate clicked and opened wide before them. "Very well, Miss. Please enter and I will greet you at the top of the front stairs."

"Gets them every time," said Jane in amusement.

The circle drive was packed with expensive cars; apparently the family was still entertaining post wedding. Lisbon pulled in as close to the front door as she could, and she and Jane emerged from the SUV to climb the stairs as directed. The butler, complete with dark suit and fussy bearing, opened the door and ushered them inside to what the man weightily designated the library.

"Would you care for refreshment?"

Jane, feeling the effects of the whiskey, begged a cup of tea. Lisbon declined and took a seat while Jane did his usual snooping around. Angela had disappeared again. Above the mantle of the fireplace was a giant oil painting of some stuffy male ancestor. Smaller, more recent photographs lined the mantle. None of them appeared to be their victim, but then, Jane hadn't expected that. Cinderella quite obviously hadn't belonged in a place like this.

A few minutes later, and the library door opened, admitting a middle aged man and woman, the man faintly resembling the gentleman in the portrait.

"I am Robert McCoy," he said, holding out his hand. "My wife, Liz."

Jane and Lisbon shook their hands and sat down on the comfortable leather furniture.

"So, Agent Lisbon, how may we help you? Please forgive us if we are still a little overwhelmed with company after our son's wedding last night."

"We'll try not to take up too much of your time," said Lisbon. She pulled from a file folder the photo of their Jane Doe. "Do you recognize this woman?"

They took the picture from her and Jane watched the couple closely. It was obvious from the blood on the victim's face and the closed eyes that she was dead. Mrs. McCoy gasped in recognition, and Mr. McCoy's jaw tightened.

"That's Jamie something-or-other," Mr. Mcoy said. "She showed up at the reception last night uninvited. My other son, Toby, escorted her out before she could make a scene."

"Is Toby here?" asked Lisbon.

The parents looked at each other, realizing the implication of her request, an unspoken message passing between them, as often did with longtime spouses. Jane caught the look, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Are you implying that our son killed this girl?" asked Mr. McCoy.

"Not at all," Lisbon said.

"Yes," said Jane. He looked at Mrs. McCoy. "Why do you also suspect him, Liz?"

"I—" Her husband grasped her hand and squeezed to stop her reply.  
>"I think we are finished with the questions until we have our lawyer present," said McCoy haughtily.<p>

"Call him," conceded Lisbon. "We'll wait. Unless you'd rather we take you and Toby to CBI Headquarters and we meet him there."

"No." He took out his cell phone and walked to the other end of the room for privacy. Jane glanced at Lisbon knowingly. This was going to be easier than it looked. At that moment, Angela appeared near the door.

"Toby's getting away," she told Jane, nodding toward the window facing the front driveway. The muffled hum of an expensive sports car starting its engine called Jane to the window.

"I think that's Toby," Jane said, parting the heavy curtains and noting the bright yellow Ferrari. Toby's way was blocked by the guest's cars so he drove off the pavement and onto the perfectly manicured grass, the churning wheels making deep ruts before it sped onto the driveway again. The gate opened by an unseen hand, and Toby McCoy made his escape with a roar of his engine.

"Dammit!" said Lisbon. She shot an angry glance at Mr. McCoy. "You texted him, didn't you? That's obstruction, sir."

Lisbon pulled out her gun and pointed it at the McCoy's. "You two, stay where you are."

She pulled out her own cell and called SacPD to send the nearest squad car in search of their newly fleeing suspect. Her next call was to Cho, giving him the names of their suspect and what they knew of the victim.

That done, Lisbon detached a pair of handcuffs from her belt and a zip tie from her jacket pocket, handing them both to Jane. "If you wouldn't mind doing the honors," she asked him.

Jane grinned, never having been asked to perform such a task for her before. He tightened the restraints behind their backs until the couple gasped in pain, then opened the door as Lisbon herded them out of the library and down the hall to the front door.

"Robert and Liz McCoy, you're under arrest for obstruction of justice and interfering with a police investigation. You have the right to remain silent…"

"Call my attorney," yelled Mr. McCoy to the flustered butler carrying a tea tray. Mrs. McCoy began crying in earnest as the houseguests began emerging from various rooms to watch with open mouths as their hosts were rustled into the back of the black SUV. Sirens sounded in the distance.

Jane shot a look at Angela as they stood by the car. "Thanks," he said softly.

She smiled. "You're welcome. I never thought working _for_ the police could be so much fun."

"It can be sometimes," said Jane, and his eyes alighted on Lisbon. She was on the phone again, this time with Wainwright. He took a moment to admire how in control she was, despite this less than desirable situation. He noticed too how the soft auburn streaks in her shiny hair caught the light, how her moss green eyes seemed to become iridescent in the late winter sunshine. She caught his eye and smiled a little, and Jane felt an unfamiliar tightening in his gut, a momentary halting of his heart. He glanced at Angela guiltily.

"It's all right, Patrick. I know you feel something for her. You have every right to. That's why I'm here, remember?"

He believed her now, believed that this was really Angela from beyond the grave. He had concluded after the earthquake that either he could call himself crazy and miss this second chance to talk with his wife, or he could ignore the fact that he _was _likely crazy, and at least pretend for a while that she really was here. Isn't that what faith was? Choosing to believe in spite of how illogical it seemed?

He still had so many questions, but he was terrified to ask them. Maybe when they had the chance to be alone he would ask her all the things that he'd wanted to since he'd found her and Charlotte dead beneath that bloody smile.

"All in good time," Angela said. She nodded toward Lisbon. "Now you owe it to Teresa and yourself to explore these feelings you have for each other."

Jane looked at his wife, her familiar beauty making his heart ache for what he'd lost, but knowing that whatever she was, whatever form she was taking, he could never have her again the way she once was.

"I'm dead, Patrick. You understand that. You have to let me go. It's okay though, my love. You'd already started letting go last year, when you finally went to visit our graves."

It was true. Seeing their headstones in the cemetery for the first time was the beginning of all this, he realized. It was the first necessary step to moving on that he'd avoided taking for years until his brother-in-law had shown up, insisting he take him. He'd cried there, but looking back he saw that his tears had not only been because of the pain seeing their graves had caused him. It was also because he knew he was ready to let them go a little, let both of them rest in peace.

He supposed shooting whom he thought was Red John had been another cathartic moment, even though it had turned out to be a mistake. In those brief hours before he'd discovered the truth, he had felt so free. He'd let go of his anger and felt more relaxed and satisfied than he had in years, despite the possibility of life in prison. The feeling was addictive, and it was hard to let it go completely, even when Rosalind Harker had confirmed his suspicions.

He still wanted to get Red John if it took his last breath, but suddenly he knew there were other things in life worth dying for, or, more accurately, worth living for. Teresa Lisbon, his work with her team, had filled a void in his life without his even knowing it. His near-death experience had shown him that life was a gift, and kissing Erica Flynn had shown him that he could want a woman that wasn't his wife.

Now, Angela was here telling him that Lisbon loved him, and what's more, she approved. If she wasn't a ghost, wasn't truly here, his subconscious was obviously telling him it was okay to move on.

"I always wanted to be able to crawl inside your head, Patrick," Angela mused after she'd listened to his thoughts and watched the accompanying emotions crossing his face. "Let me tell you, it is a strange yet wondrous place, and not nearly as scary as I'd imagined in life."

He looked at her sheepishly. "I'm glad you think so, because I'm frequently terrified by what goes on in there."

"You ready?" asked Lisbon, unknowingly interrupting. "Cho and Rigsby are almost here to take over the investigation of Toby's room. We'll get these two back to HQ, hold them for questioning and see if the AG's office wants to file charges."

"Don't you just love parents who'll do anything for their kids?"

Lisbon's cell rang and she held it to her ear. "Yeah. Yeah. Dammit. Okay. Guess I'm the one who has to tell the parents."

Lisbon caught Jane's look and shook her head. Bad news.

"Okay. Thanks, sir." She disconnected and looked at Jane, then at the couple in the backseat of the SUV and sighed.

"His car crashed?" asked Jane perceptively.

"Yeah. Goddammit." Her hand came up to her forehead. "Let's get them out of there. No parent needs to hear about their son's death in handcuffs."

"She really is a compassionate person," Angela said sincerely.

"Yes," said Jane, and he looked at Lisbon, allowing for once his admiration to show clearly on his face. Lisbon appeared momentarily startled by what she saw there, and hesitated as Jane went to the door of the SUV and helped the McCoy's out again. Lisbon came back to herself and holstered her weapon. She passed her key to Jane to unlock the cuffs on Mr. McCoy, while she used the small knife from her keychain to cut Mrs. McCoy's zip tie.

"What is it?" Liz McCoy asked anxiously. "What's happening?"

"Come back inside, please," Lisbon said gently.

Mr. McCoy's face looked stricken as he realized what must have happened, and Jane met his eyes, instantly understanding his feelings, empathizing with how he would likely feel once he realized he was partly responsible for his son's death. He pitied the man; it was the worst feeling in the world.

"Where's Toby?" insisted McCoy's wife. McCoy put a hand on her lower back and directed her toward the house.

"Come on, ma'am," said Lisbon gravely. "Let's get in out of the sun."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later, Jane knocked on Lisbon's office door. She looked up from the report on the McCoy case she was finishing and waved him inside. Jane opened the glass door and entered, holding up a plastic evidence bag containing one lady's shoe.

"Aw," said Lisbon. "Cinderella's missing slipper."

"Cho found it beneath the seat of Toby McCoy's car."

"And to think," mused Lisbon, "we didn't have to search every Ferrari in the kingdom to find the right fit."

"And sometimes a fairy godmother steps in to help," replied Jane, finding his way to her overstuffed couch. He settled back against it with a sigh, tossing the evidence on the coffee table. He looked inconspicuously around the room, surprised that Angela's ghost wasn't beside him.

"What?"

Jane shrugged. "Just continuing the fairy tale metaphor."

"You don't seem quite as triumphant as I would have expected you to be," said Lisbon. "Given that you were right about the shoe and all, right about which formal event to look into…"

"I guess this one hit a little closer to home than I'd like."

She regarded him a moment, trying to understand the connection. "Oh," she said finally. "Toby's parents."

Jane nodded. How was it that this woman knew him so well? "Is the AG's office pressing charges?"

"For what?" asked Lisbon innocently.

Jane caught her eye, his lips quirking slightly. "You didn't tell them they tipped off Toby, did you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her expression blank. But under his intent gaze of admiration, her face softened. "They'll be punishing themselves for the rest of their lives for their hands in his death. I can't think of a worse prison, can you?"

Jane felt his throat tighten, and he merely nodded.

"Are you sure you're okay now?" she asked him.

"Yes," he managed in a whisper. He paused then, clearing his throat. "You know, Teresa, you really are one hell of a woman."

She flushed slightly. "Where's that coming from?"

"My heart," he said simply.

At that moment, Jane glanced up to see Angela standing at the door, a smile of approval lighting her ghostly face.

A/N: Hope this chapter was worth the wait. It would be great if you could sign in and let me know what you think!

While I'm sad there isn't a new episode this week, next Thursday and Friday, we get two nights in a row of new episodes! I can't wait.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I continue to be overwhelmed with all the lovely reviews for this fic! You guys are amazing! You inspire me to keep writing, that's for sure.

This chapter has a lot of talking. Jane finally gets some of his burning questions answered. There's a bit of angst, a bit of humor, and a touch of romance—hopefully a little something for everyone. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

Long after the closed-case pizza was gone, Jane made his way up to the attic. He couldn't sleep—not even on his couch—so he thought a visit to what Lisbon sometimes referred to as his "man cave" would help him settle his thoughts. He sat languidly in his chair, staring out into the darkness beyond the window. Angela had given him a lot to think about, as had his own behavior toward Lisbon in her office earlier. He had to concede that maybe the ghost was right; there _was_ something in the air between Lisbon and him, something more than just a deep, abiding friendship. Now that he'd allowed himself to seriously consider the notion, Jane found it difficult to think of anything else.

"Why do you hang out in this spooky old attic?" asked Angela's ghost when materialized beside him. "It's a wonder you haven't had more ghosts visit you before—it certainly looks like a place that deserves to be haunted."

"It's quiet here," he told her. "I can think."

"Well, Teresa is right. It doesn't look good. It's…unhealthy. But at least you got rid of that fleabag you called a bed."

Jane shrugged, then grinned suddenly. "I've missed having you busting my chops all the time. No one does it better than you."

Angela chuckled. "Teresa gives me a run for the money, and you know it. That's why you care so much about her. You need someone in your life to at least try to keep you in line."

"Oh, she definitely tries." A vision of the multitude of times she'd punched him in the nose or thrown various desk supplies at him filled his mind, and his grin widened. Maybe she _did _really love him. What woman would put up with his crap if she didn't?

"I'm glad you're seeing what's been right in front of you for months now," said Angela's ghost beside him.

"For months?"

"I told you she only recently realized her feelings for you. It was after she'd been shot. She woke up in that hospital grateful to be alive, and suddenly fearful she would lose you forever for what you'd done in that mall. You remember how different she was all of a sudden?"

He thought back on that turbulent time after mistakenly shooting Timothy Carter. Despite the circumstances, she seemed almost giddy around him at times, smiling more…blushing more. Was that really when she'd fallen in love with him?

"I remember," he replied. "And then she softened toward me, toward what I was doing."

"You were finally being honest with her, sharing things with her. She realized she might really be able to trust you, at least on some level. That's what's held her back with you all these years, kept her feelings buried from even herself. How can you love someone you can't trust?"

Jane nodded. "I see it now. And I've felt so much better trusting her, felt so much less…alone."

"Oh, Patrick, you've never been alone. You've just been punishing yourself by pushing people away. Why you felt the need to do that, I'll never know. But what I do know is you're not responsible for what happened to me and Charlotte."

And there it was, the refutation of what had in effect become Jane's religion the past eight years. And like a man whose god was questioned, Jane became immediately defensive.

"The hell I wasn't," he said, his voicing raising an octave. "If I hadn't said what I did on television, hadn't been so arrogant, you and Charlotte would be alive today."

Angela considered him calmly. "Perhaps. But you weren't the one who killed us. It was Red John. Everything you said about him was true, but he is a psychopathic killer, Patrick. We didn't deserve to die simply because you called him out. It's not your fault. You have to forgive yourself or you will never have a life beyond that day."

Jane felt his eyes filling as thoughts of that long ago day came back to mind as crystal clear as if it had been yesterday. Seeing Angela before him now made the memories even more defined, and he trembled under the weight of it.

"I can't," he whispered brokenly, both hands moving to cover his face.

"Patrick," Angela said sternly. "I'm here. Ask what you need to."

"I can't," he repeated, but the horrible questions flooded his mind, unbidden.

"No," she said, answering each thought as it came. "It was quick. I awoke to a hand over my mouth and a knife at my throat. It was quick," she said again. "I barely felt anything."

"You had to have been terrified," he said raggedly, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Yes, but my last thoughts were of Charlotte, and of you. How would you get through this? I didn't want you to be alone."

"Oh, God," Jane said, unable to look at her. The tears were blinding, and his body shook. Nausea nearly overwhelmed him, and he had the sudden urge to vomit over and over like he had that night. There'd been so much blood. The butchered image of his little girl captured his memory, but this time, he couldn't hide from it or push it out of his mind. _Charlotte._

"She was asleep, Patrick," whispered the ghost. "She never woke up, never knew what happened, was never afraid."

Jane gulped and looked up, wide-eyed at the familiar words. "Kristina—"

"Yes, she was telling you the truth. When she reached out to me, I sent you a message through her. You believed her, didn't you?"

"Because I wanted to believe," he said. "But later I realized she was just telling me what I wanted to hear. It wouldn't have taken a psychic to figure out I would want to know this."

"It's true, Patrick. Kristina Frye has the gift, just like you do."

"I don't have a gift, Angela. It's educated guesses, and a lot of luck."

He sat back in his chair, emotionally drained. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, then proceeded to wipe at his eyes and nose tiredly. He felt sick and clammy and exhausted.

"Maybe some of it is, but if you weren't psychic, how are you seeing me now? Talking to me? When you were making your living as a psychic, you'd get images in your mind of your client's loved ones, wouldn't you? The words would flow easily from your mouth—_their_ words. I'm telling you Patrick, you were a conduit for them, just like Kristina was a conduit for me. And now, working with the CBI, you still have those flashes of insight that are uncanny. You see visions of crime scenes, or criminals. It's like the victims are guiding you. You tell yourself and others it's guessing, or coincidence, or luck, that you're just paying attention. While that's certainly a big part of it, there's more to it than that, and you're too afraid to acknowledge it."

He stared at her, the truth of her words vying with the usual denial poised on his lips. But she wasn't finished.

"You do have a gift, Patrick, and you've recognized it from the time you were The Boy Wonder. Later, when you were accepting money from wealthy women, you felt like you were fleecing them, but _they_ didn't feel that way. Your knowledge and insight was invaluable to them, comforted them. What made you feel so bad was that you loved the money so much. A poor kid from the carney circuit was finally getting everything he'd been denied his whole life, but you were using your gift for material gain, and that troubled you, I know it did—it always had."

She'd begged him long ago to take her away from the life of being constantly on the move, never able to put down roots, hating the perpetual dirt and stink of the road and the fairgrounds, the claustrophobic press of humanity. So when they left the carnival, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

"The money was mainly for you and eventually Charlotte," he said, finding his voice. "I had to be able to give you the financial security your daddy had always given you, security I'd never known myself. I admit, it became addictive. I liked the suits and the cars and the spotlight. It was the ultimate long con…and it killed you both."

His tears slid down his cheeks again as he relived the past; guilt—his constant companion—finding its home again in the emptiness of his soul. But his newest companion, Angela's ghost, was shaking her head sadly at him.

"Forgive yourself, Patrick. I have. Charlotte has."

At that, his heart quickened again. "Charlotte? Is she here?" He looked around, both fearful and hopeful that his golden haired daughter would materialize before him.

"No, but don't be sad about that. She's moved on; she's at peace. Nothing was left undone for her. She was a happy child and free of care; remember her that way."

"Unlike you," Jane said quietly. "That's why you're still here."

"It's been hell seeing you suffer, seeing you blame yourself. I can move on, my love, when _you_ can move on."

Jane's face turned cold and blank.

"Wow, Angela, if you wanted to twist the knife a bit more, you've done it. How do you expect me to forget what I did, forget what I saw, forget that Red John-"

A thought occurred to him, and it took hold in the obsessive part of his brain.

"You saw him, didn't you?"

"Patrick—"

"Tell me! Tell me who he is so I can kill the son of a bitch and we can both move on!"

"I didn't see him. He was wearing a mask. And even if I had, I wouldn't tell you, not to see you become this madman I don't even recognize."

"Did he say anything to you?"he persisted.

She hesitated, worried by what she saw in him, by that crazed light in his eye she'd observed over the years.

"Angela, please."

She sighed. "He said, 'I bet your husband didn't see this one coming.'"

Jane blanched, but remained painfully silent.

"I'm sorry I can't tell you anything more," said the ghost. "Go home and get some sleep, Patrick. You've had a long, emotional day."

He turned away from her to stare out into the blackness again.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane had just risen from his chair, resigned to return to his motel room, when a soft knock came at the door. He turned from the window, halfway expecting to see Angela, not Lisbon. Of course, he reminded himself, ghosts don't knock. At least, not the one currently haunting him. At is invitation, Lisbon slid the door open with a smile, but one look at Jane's ravaged face and she knew he wasn't as stable as he'd assured her earlier.

"What is it? What's wrong?" She walked quickly over to him, her boot heels clicking on the wooden floor.

"I'm—" he began, intending to tell her he was fine, but suddenly he was tired of the platitudes. He was looking at her as she stood before him, so concerned, so—so very much in love with him. Why had he been so afraid to see this before? She reached out her small hands to take hold of his biceps, and he felt the warmth seep through his shirt, saw the identical warmth of her green eyes looking up into his. It was nearly his undoing.

He smiled wistfully. "Aw, Lisbon. I really don't deserve you."

Her dimple appeared as if by magic. "Two compliments in one day. Now I _know_ something is up."

He laughed softly, and then, before either of them could think about it, he drew her into his arms. He hugged her tightly to his body, felt her heart accelerate against his. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her soft hair beneath his cheek, reveled in the sensation of her deceptively delicate arms wrapping around his waist. She relaxed into him, leaning her head against his chest. In that moment, something broke free within him, and he held her closer still. Lisbon heard beneath her ear the instant his heart picked up speed, sensed the change in the air around them.

"Teresa," he breathed, and she was shocked to feel his hot, full lips brush against her temple. She closed her eyes tightly, nervously anticipating what he might do next.

Jane realized he had only held her like this a handful of times—to apologize, to comfort, to hypnotize, to dance—never just to enjoy the simple pleasure of holding a warm woman in his arms. _This_ warm woman. Denial of human contact had been another way to punish himself, and Jane was starting to question the logic of all that. How might things have been different had he reached out more, shared more, embraced more? He found that in recent months, since he'd been more open with Lisbon, he had actually focused better, had even slept more readily. He wondered how many important things he might have missed over the years, nuances he hadn't seen about Red John, because of this pointless self-deprivation.

They stood that way for several minutes until finally, Lisbon was the one to pull away. She shyly avoided his eyes and stepped a safer distance away from him. Jane himself was feeling a bit disoriented, as if awakening in a strange place. He watched as Lisbon's hands went nervously to her hair, smoothing it down while she gathered her thoughts. Then her dazed eyes focused on his, and Jane had the sudden desire to pull her back into his arms and taste her trembling lips. He swallowed hard and gripped the back of the nearby chair, waiting for her to speak since he didn't think he could at the moment.

"Are you ready to tell me what's really been bothering you today?" she asked. She remembered now why she'd come up there. "Given how your emotions have been all over the map, I'm betting it has to do with Red John."

"You know me very well," he said, leaning back against the old desk. He sighed, one hand raking through his hair in defeat. "For some reason, I've been thinking about my wife a lot today. I've realized that I might have been wrong about the way I've handled her death—or rather, _not_ handled it."

"You've been punishing yourself all these years for something Red John did," she said wisely.

"Yes, but don't get me wrong—I share in the blame for what happened. The way I lived my life back then was in many ways despicable. And taunting a serial killer wasn't the smartest thing to do, in hindsight. But I'm starting to realize my punishment didn't fit the crime. This whole McCoy case brought a lot of those feelings to the fore, and I feel for those parents, I really do. I can see their future now, if both of them survive it without one of them—likely him—killing themselves. Their son was the one who decided to flee, who chose to drive recklessly to avoid being captured. They won't be able to separate themselves from the equation, however, and I foresee alcoholism and a failed marriage. It's tragic in so many ways."

"Yes." He saw that she was trying to encourage him to keep talking, and he almost smiled at her CBI interrogation skills. When a suspect wants to talk, let them talk.

"And then there is this," he said, holding up his left hand for her to see the ring still firmly ensconced there. "I've been using it to keep women away."

"I've noticed," she said neutrally, but he caught the brief flare in her eyes.

"I'm not sure I want to do that anymore."

"Oh."

He did smile then. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"

"No."

"Afraid to know the reason?"

She swallowed. "Yes," she replied, almost too low to hear.

He shrugged. "Okay then. We'll talk about that another day."

"Whatever you want."

He stared at her a moment, gauging her reaction, willing to bet her pulse was racing as fast as his. Abruptly, he turned back to his desk, where he'd tossed his suit jacket earlier. He picked it up, plus his keys and cell phone, depositing them methodically into his pockets while she watched him warily. He gave an exaggerated yawn.

"Well, I'm headed home. You?"

"Yeah," she said, her voice stronger. She was both relieved and disappointed that particular conversation had come to an end.

He held his hand out, indicating that she precede him out the door. He flipped the light switch and slid the heavy door closed behind them. They walked companionably, side-by-side, down the dimly lit hall.

"Lisbon?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I've let myself go?"

"In what way?"

"There's more than one way?" he asked, in mock offense.

She smirked. "Mentally, physically, or morally?"

"Why, physically, of course."

She gave him a sidelong glance, trying not to let him see how much she truly enjoyed the way he looked, even when his hair was more disheveled than usual and his eyes were a little red with dark shadows beneath.

"I will say that, compared to when you first joined the team, you look much better now."

"Oh?" he queried, surprised.

"You don't remember how very thin you were? You looked like a war refugee. It was understandable, though. I'm sure eating had been the last thing on your mind back then."

He remembered now, how he'd had to bore new holes in all his belts. Of course, in recent years, new holes had been bored on the other end.

"I'd forgotten about that."

"But if you think you're going soft in the middle, it might have something to do with the hours you spend on the couch and the number of muffins you eat."

"It's a conspiracy," he murmured wryly.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Are you thinking of doing something about it?"

"Maybe."

"Well, I go jogging every morning down by the river. I could pick you up on the way and you could go with me."

"I actually used to jog," he told her.

"Maybe you should start again," she said. They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and they both paused. She needed to return for her things in her office, and he was headed toward the elevator. "Jogging clears the mind and releases endorphins. Helps you sleep better at night too. It might make you feel better about other…things."

He considered her offer, remembering how much he used to enjoy jogging. He was terribly out of shape, however, and knew he'd have to put up with a lot of good-natured ribbing from her when he fell hopelessly behind. He grinned.

"Okay. It's a date."

"Six o'clock," she said, her tone full of warning.

"Six?"

"Oh, come on, Jane. You're probably awake then anyway, tossing and turning and trying to get back to sleep."

He sighed. When she was right, she was right. "Okay. I'll dig out my sweatpants."

"You own sweat pants?"

"I'm an American, Lisbon. Every American owns a pair of sweatpants."

She laughed. "True. Running shoes?"

"Why, they're issued with the sweatpants, of course."

"Well, then. I'll see you in the morning, bright and early."

"I'll be ready."

"Good-night, Jane."

"I'll wait for you by the elevator," he offered gallantly.

She smiled, her dimples appearing, her eyes alight with happiness. He grinned in return.

"I'll be right back."

As he watched her leave, he felt a familiar presence. He turned around, but he couldn't see Angela anywhere.

"Well done, Patty," he heard her disembodied voice. "I foresee toned abs in your future."

"Oh, shut up," he said good-naturedly.

Her soft laughter filled his ears, and he smiled.

A/N: Did you survive that emotional roller coaster? LOL. Well, I foresee one or two more chapters of this fic, so I hope you stay with me. And if you feel the need to review, I wouldn't turn it away. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**For some of you, this might be a re-post. I posted ch. 5 last night, got a few reviews, then the chapter had disappeared (like a ghost, lol) this morning. Sorry for any inconvenience. This site is very temperamental sometimes...**

A/N: Okay, so I'm succumbing to peer pressure! I had intended only to gloss over the jogging scene, but so many of you great readers expressed excitement about it that I went ahead and wrote the scene. Then, some of you seemed very disappointed that I only had one or two chapters planned for this fic. Well, I think I can squeeze out one additional chapter, so I expanded the case in the story, added the jogging scene and one or two more that I thought you might enjoy. So here it is, sort of a bonus chapter that I hadn't planned on writing. So glad you guys didn't tell me to start having wild parties or wear jeggings, (and believe me, that wouldn't have been pretty) because obviously I can't resist your demands, lol. Thanks for all your great suggestions!

**Chapter 5**

"Patrick, it's past time to wake up."

"Hmph?" mumbled Jane grumpily, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. Angela's ghost shook her head in amusement. When had he become such a bear in the mornings?

"Patrick…Teresa will be here in about fifteen minutes."

That did it. He sat upright immediately, instantly wide-eyed, pajamas twisted and unbuttoned around his body. For a moment, Angela Jane allowed herself to wish for what could never be again. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be able to touch him, to climb in and share the warmth of his bed once more. But her life was over, she thought wistfully, and she was here to help him to be happy without her in what remained of his.

Jane glanced at Angela, standing beside his bed, and managed a sleepy smile. "This is the nicest wakeup call I've had in years," he said softly. She sensed how much he still loved her, and realized that wouldn't do. Pining for what was lost was precisely what she wanted him to _stop_ doing.

"Up and at 'em," she insisted, tapping meaningfully at her wrist.

"Why is it that I tend to surround myself with bossy women," he groused, making his way to the bathroom. Five minutes later he re-emerged, having doused his face with cold water, brushed his teeth, and run a comb carelessly through his hair.

"Angela?" he called to the empty motel room.

But she was gone again.

He went into the back of his closet where he found a cardboard box. He lifted the lid and rooted through its contents, pulling out a pair of grey sweatpants. From his closet floor he found the seldom-used sneakers, and hanging on a hanger was the matching grey zippered sweatshirt. He donned a blue t-shirt and socks to finish the outfit, pleased that everything still fit, if perhaps a little more snuggly than he'd like. Well, that was about to change, if Angela and Teresa had anything to say about it.

When the knock came on his door at precisely six o'clock, Jane opened it, smiling at Lisbon from ear-to-ear. She stood outside with a smile of her own, sporty in her own black running ensemble, hair in a smooth ponytail. Her eyes roved up and down his figure, and Jane held still so she could get the full effect of seeing him in something other than one of his stuffy suits. Despite the fact that they both knew he was a bit out of shape, Lisbon had to admit that there was still something extremely sexy about Jane in sportswear. It oddly suited him. At the hint of color that stained her cheeks from her wayward thoughts, Jane himself grew a little warm. He cleared his throat.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"The question is, Jane," she replied, grinning mischievously, "are _you_ ready?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She'd been partly running backwards, facing Jane as he huffed and puffed after barely a mile of jogging. "Come on, old man," she jeered. "Pick it up a little."

Jane stopped abruptly, bending forward, hands on his knees. "What are you…trying…to do…kill…me?" he panted.

She jogged over to him, not even out of breath. "It's worse than I thought. I figured I'd at least get two miles out of you before you gave up and started complaining."

He shot her a dirty look, then caught a glimpse of Angela, sitting on a nearby park bench, grinning at his plight.

"You asked for this," said the ghost.

"Why do I feel like I joined the Army," Jane said, his comment easily aimed at both women.

Lisbon ignored him. "Hey, you make it two miles, and I'll buy you breakfast."

Jane's eyes lit up at that. "Eggs?"

"Sure," she said, jogging in place lest her heart rate decline. "An egg white omelet."

He looked at her in horror. "The yolk and the white were meant to be together, Lisbon. I won't be the one to tear them apart."

Lisbon laughed. "Okay, one over easy, if you'll have whole wheat toast, and _no muffins._"

"_Two _over easy, and you've got yourself a deal."

"Two eggs, wheat toast, _and _a side of fruit."

"You drive a hard bargain, Lisbon," he said, trying hard not to grin. She nodded triumphantly and set off ahead without him.

"See you in a mile," she called, her ponytail swishing back and forth as she ran out of sight around a tree-lined corner.

Jane straightened his back and began walking just under jogging speed.

"You're cheating," said Angela.

"I won't tell if you won't. Besides, I didn't say I would _jog_ all that way."

Angela tsked in mock disappointment. "Once a conman, always a conman…"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon pulled her Mustang into the parking lot of Jane's motel. The color was high in his cheeks from exertion, fresh air, and a relatively healthy breakfast.

"Well," she said cheerfully, "see you at the office. I'm proud of you, by the way, even though you did cheat and walk most of that second mile."

"What?" he said innocently. "Why, Lisbon, I'm utterly offended by that remark. Had I done that, I'd only be cheating myself."

She smirked. "Yeah, sure; but you also love eggs, especially when they're free."

His eyes sparkled wickedly at her, and she knew he wasn't the least bit abashed by his behavior.

"True."

They sat a quiet moment in the car while the motor ran, strangely reluctant to part, even though they'd be seeing each other in another hour. Their exercise along the river had felt somehow more personal, despite the fact they'd been apart for most of their jog. Their eyes met, and Jane leaned over to plant a kiss just to the right of her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave a little gasp as his lips caressed her cheek just a little longer than a friendly peck.

"Thanks, Lisbon," he whispered, leaning back slightly to see her reaction. He himself was shaking on the inside, and he knew his eyes had darkened in compliment to hers.

"You're uh, welcome," she said absently. Then her green eyes turned hopeful. "Shall we do this again, same time tomorrow?"

"Okay," he said, his voice a little hoarse with emotion. "But I'll buy breakfast next time."

"Deal," she said, and he exited the car, feeling her eyes on him all the way up the outside stairs to his room.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Angela listened in the bathroom while Jane took a shower. She was about to ask if he'd had a good time with Lisbon on his jog, maybe give him a few more good-natured digs, when, softly at first, he began to hum a familiar tune.

Either there had been another earthquake, or Jane had apparently felt the earth move under his feet again. It must have had something to do with that kiss he'd given Teresa in the car, she thought. She decided not to interrupt him as his humming reached an ear-shattering crescendo.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Coroner's and CSU reports came back on our victim," Cho said to Lisbon later that morning. He presented her with the file.

"Thanks." Lisbon opened the file and saw that their Jane Doe was in fact Jamie Young.

"She died of internal hemorrhaging as a result of five stab wounds from a blunt object to her chest and abdomen." Lisbon shook her head sadly to herself and thumbed through the other papers. "And… she had a rap sheet," Lisbon said in surprise.

"Yeah. Check fraud. Shoplifting. Trespassing."

"Hmm. Some of the bloody fingerprints found in the vehicle were neither Toby McCoy's nor Jamie Young's." She looked up from the file as Jane strolled in, his hair still curling damply from his recent shower. He was in one of his usual suits, but she found she missed the way his sweatpants had cupped his well-shaped behind. _Nothing needs to be fixed there,_ she mused.

Jane paused at her expression, and when she met his eyes, it was as if he'd read her mind, and she flushed to the roots of her hair. Jane gave her a slow, knowing smile, while the rest of the team looked curiously from their boss to the consultant.

"So, Toby might not have been our killer," Jane said, having heard Lisbon's last statement as he'd entered the bullpen.

"Disproves your whole shoe theory," said Rigsby from his desk.

"Haven't you learned by now to have patience, Wayne," said Jane with a hint of amused condescension. He turned to Lisbon. "I think you should bring in his parents for more questioning."

"You think one of them did it?" asked Grace.

"I'll know better when I've spoken to them again. What do you say, Lisbon?"

She considered his request a moment. "Okay, Cho, you and Rigsby go bring in the McCoy's."

Cho nodded, reaching for his suit jacket.

"Will do, Boss," said Rigsby, already formulating a wager to run by Cho.

Jane turned to Lisbon. "Now, maybe we'll be able to find the real McCoy."

"You've been waiting since yesterday to say that, haven't you?" she said in amusement.

"If the shoe fits, Lisbon…" His eyes twinkled with mirth.

She gave an audible groan at his sad puns and headed for the peace and quiet of her office.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Do you want this case thrown out," Lisbon whispered angrily. She'd gone into the interrogation room where she'd been watching Jane question Robert McCoy, and grabbed Jane's arm, pulling him roughly out into the hallway.

"You were attempting to hypnotize him. If I've told you once—"

"Yes, and it's getting more and more tiresome every time you tell me. I wasn't hypnotizing him, exactly, just helping him get to a relaxed state where he would be more likely to spill his guts out."

"Same thing," she snapped.

"Look, obviously he helped his son cover up the murder, and you're letting him get away with it."

"We have his bloody fingerprints in the car; that's enough for an arrest."

"Yeah, but wouldn't a confession tie things up in a nice, neat, unimpeachable bow?"

"Which you're about to ruin with your mind control techniques."

Her breathing had become more audible, her cheeks rosy red, and her eyes blazed green with annoyance.

"You're beautiful when you're angry," he said, the words slipping out before he could help himself. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face and she froze, unable suddenly to move or speak.

He shrugged and gave her his most charming grin. "Look, I'm sorry I upset you. I'll go back in there and—"

"No, you won't," she said, finding her voice. "I'm sending Cho. You—go get some tea or something." She waved her hand at him dismissively.

"You're kicking me out?"

"You didn't get that when I dragged you out of the room?"

"Fine," he huffed. "But don't blame me when he gets off because of circumstantial evidence."

"I won't," she said, her voice clipped.

He grinned as she headed toward the bullpen and Cho. She _was _beautiful when she was angry. Why hadn't he ever noticed that before?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho was able to get Robert McCoy to confess to helping Toby dispose of the body, and Rigsby reluctantly passed him a twenty.

Jane looked up from his position on the couch, where he'd been sitting trying to read and not concentrate on his aching legs. Angela had been making that even more difficult, since she'd been sitting beside him the last few minutes, reading over his shoulder.

"Since when did you start reading eighteenth century English poetry?" she asked him.

"Since I found out Red John did," he muttered softly, hoping he'd be drowned out by the office noise around him.

"You're not going to rest until you find him, are you?"

He gave her a look, but then, she already knew the answer anyway.

Angela sighed. "At least you're making some progress with Teresa."

"I'm really not comfortable talking to you about that," he mouthed, holding the book nearer his face. "I mean, you're my wife…"

"Your _dead _wife."

Jane flinched. "So you keep reminding me."

He shifted his legs, barely suppressing a groan of pain. Angela chuckled.

"Something wrong, Jane?" asked Van Pelt from her nearby desk.

"I started jogging this morning. My trainer is a slave driver."

She raised her eyebrows. "You got a personal trainer? Cool. I've always wanted to try one. Let me know if you like this one."

"Oh, he likes her all right," said Angela.

"I will," replied Jane, avoiding looking at the ghost beside him.

Jane felt the sudden vibration of a text message, and he reached in his jacket pocket for his phone.

_In my office. Now!_

He smirked. So, she was still pissed off at him. He got gingerly to his feet, dog-earing his place in the book before tossing it down and limping out of the bullpen.

When he glanced behind him, Angela had disappeared again.

"You commanded?" he said in Lisbon's open doorway. She looked up from her computer and waved him inside. He shut the door and lowered himself slowly to her couch. When he met her eyes, his mouth was firm line. She smiled; she didn't look like a woman displeased.

"Something wrong with your legs?"

"No, not at all," he lied. "So, what's with the urgent text message? Am I in trouble?" He didn't bother with adding the word, _again._

She shrugged. "Nope. I figured you might be feeling the burn from your morning run, and I was just testing how fast your aching legs could carry you in here. A walk that would take you twenty seconds yesterday took you about a minute today. I'd say your pain level is about what, an…eight?"

Jane narrowed his eyes.

"You may look sweet, but deep down inside, Lisbon, you are a mean, avaricious woman."

She grinned, tossing him a bottle of pain reliever. "Seriously, though, are you up to coming with me to talk to Jamie Young's family?"

"Really?"

Obviously, that was the last thing he wanted to do, and Lisbon couldn't blame him; speaking to a victim's family wasn't exactly high on her fun list either. Jane opened the bottle and dumped four tablets into his hand, swallowing the extra dose before she could protest. She made a face; he hadn't even used water.

"Come on, I hate doing this kind of thing alone," she said. "And they just live on the other side of town."

"Why don't you take Van Pelt?"

"She has the afternoon off."

He didn't even suggest Rigsby or Cho. Rigsby was always so ridiculously awkward around the bereaved, while Cho projected about as much sympathy as a sea sponge.

"Do they know she's dead?"

"Yeah. I just need some information to fill in some of the blanks for the final reports. Also, maybe they know how she got herself into this situation. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"Meh. She was a Cinderella, remember? The ultimate social climber. She just skipped a few rungs and that doesn't sit well with people like the McCoy's. I imagine her family will be blue collar workers who spoiled their daughter beyond their means."

"Does that mean you'll come?"

"If we can stop somewhere for lunch. I didn't realize I was starting a starvation diet today." He patted his stomach meaningfully.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I know a place where they make a great grilled chicken salad."

"Rabbit food?" he said in disgust.

"I'm pretty sure rabbits don't eat chicken. I promise you'll like it."

When she saw pain furrow his brow, Lisbon went around her desk and held out both hands to help Jane up from the couch. He grunted, but eventually made it to his feet. He stood in front of her a moment, still holding her hands, hyperaware of the current of electricity running between them. She gave a gentle tug and he grinned, holding on more tightly.

"You really _are _trying to kill me," he said softly, looking down into her face. His words seemed to have more than one meaning, and her expression softened in response.

"You'll thank me for this, later," she said, as he released her hands and she led the way out of her office.

Jane hoped there was a double meaning in that statement too.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Well, that could have gone better," Lisbon said later, over salads.

"Hey, don't beat yourself up. I thought you did fine under the circumstances."

"You could tell her parents had already been through so much with her already, having their daughter constantly in trouble, then pursuing an entitled guy she knew didn't really want her. They warned her…"

"The heart wants what the heart wants, Lisbon."

"Yes," said Lisbon, momentarily mesmerized by the strange glimmer in his eyes. She cast her eyes back to her salad, spearing a piece of chicken.

"Part of me wanted to go all Catholic on them," she continued, "comfort them by saying they'll see her in Heaven, that this life is by no means the end. But I can't do that; I have to stay professional and leave such talk to their _spiritual advisors. _But the whole time I was talking to them, Jamie's mother kept staring at my crucifix. I wish I could have said more."

She had caught an unusual tone in his voice and looked up into his serious sea-green gaze. By now, he would normally be scoffing at such religious nonsense, spouting something about false hope and fairy tales. Instead, he was regarding her steadily, debating whether or not to speak. Finally, after a quick glance to the empty chair to his left, he reached out a hand to touch her forearm.

"Next time, Lisbon, tell them what you think, to hell with the rules. I mean, it doesn't hurt to believe such things, if it is a comfort. I wish I'd had faith in something once upon a time; it might have made things…easier."

His words left her speechless. She looked at his hand on her arm, then back to his eyes, and she saw something there she'd never seen before—peace.

"One day you cast a flower upon the ocean," said Angela's ghost beside him.

Jane froze, listening while he continued to gaze at Lisbon.

"You reached out, Patrick, and I got your message. That's when I knew you were ready to believe again."

He closed his eyes against her words, his heart thrumming as he remembered watching his offering floating out to sea. He recalled how he had felt in his heart that at that moment he truly was not alone, even in the face of the vast Pacific.

"Jane?" said Lisbon, watching the emotions play across his face, ending in a slight smile that curved his sensual lips.

"You know what I believe, Lisbon?" he said, opening mischievous eyes.

"What?" she asked breathlessly.

"I believe you were right about this chicken salad," he said, taking up a forkful of lettuce. "It's actually quite good..."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this bonus chapter! I would love to hear your opinions. Please be sure to log in and set your settings to accept private messages. If you haven't had a reply back to your review, it's likely because of one of those reasons. Thanks for reading!

And aren't you excited about two new episodes this week? I know I am ;).


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry I'm so behind in answering your wonderful reviews. I am definitely reading and appreciating them, but I get so caught up in writing I don't take the time I should. I promise to answer them very soon. In the meantime, I think you Jisbon fans should be pleased with this chapter. More of my fantasies coming to life through the magic of fanfiction…

**Chapter 6**

Jane lay awake in bed the next morning, contemplating the myriad of thoughts swirling through his head, foremost of which didn't concern Angela, but his recognition of his developing feelings for Lisbon. It was ironic, really—and Jane was normally a big fan of irony—that just when he'd gotten his heart's desire back, his heart was desiring something else.

"It's okay," said Angela, who was suddenly sitting beside him on the bed. "This is how it should be."

"Is it?" he asked. "Why can't it be that you and Charlotte are alive and well and we're still living in our house in Malibu? How can you say that wasn't meant to be my reality? Who gets to decide that?"

Angela looked Heavenward, and Jane rolled his eyes.

"Well, believe it or not, Patrick, He is the ultimate decision-maker, but that's not to say we don't make our own reality by the choices we make—I know you believe that. But it is what it is, and you are alive and I am dead. You need to stop living in the past now, Patrick. Stop wasting the life you have. You more than anyone know how precious, how fleeting it all is. I'm dead. You and Teresa are not."

"But—"

"Shh." She reached out a ghostly hand to lay across his lips, but he felt nothing but a tingling coolness. "It's time to let me go, my love," she continued. "I think you know that. I think you're ready for that. You have a woman who loves you, and I think you're beginning to realize you love her too. I've been watching you with her for years. It used to be you fought her over everything—her stance on vengeance, her respect for the law. You've moderated your feelings on those things now, haven't you? And Teresa has done the same. You're meeting somewhere in the middle; you see eye-to-eye much more often lately. Despite everything surrounding Red John, more and more you find yourself feeling…happy."

Angela watched as the tears welled in his eyes as she spoke.

"I don't want to lose you again," he whispered hoarsely. "Why can't you stay with me, give me advice, give me a kick in the ass when I need it?"

She smiled, and Jane was surprised to see her eyes were watery too. "Because that's Teresa's job now; it's been that way since the day you met her. And because, it would be hard for me too, my love, to stay with you and not be able to hold you. I would have left long ago if I'd thought you were okay, but something has compelled me to stay, to wait until the time was right for me to leave you. That time is coming, Patrick. Let it happen…"

Her voice drifted away, as did her image just as someone knocked. Jane climbed out of bed, his blue paisley pajama top hanging loose and unbuttoned over the matching bottoms. He moved slowly, his legs still stiff and sore from the previous day's exertions.

"Jane, it's me," called Lisbon before he had even made it to the door.

He wiped self-consciously at his eyes with the backs of his hands, before reaching for the locks and welcoming his visitor.

"Morning, Lisbon," he said with forced cheer.

"Hey…you're not ready…" She looked him up and down, her eyes focused on his smooth, bare chest before skittering quickly up to his eyes, tired and a little red around the edges. Almost as if he'd been crying. Jane watched the mask of concern fall once again over her elfin features and gave her a sheepish grin.

"I'm sorry. I guess I overslept," he explained. "Not to mention the fact that my legs are killing me this morning, even after I soaked in the hot tub last night and took several more pain relievers. Rain check?" He glanced beyond her to the overcast sky. "That might be more than just an expression today."

"I feel bad because I worked you so hard yesterday. Petty of me, I know," she admitted with a sheepish smile of her own. "We should have started out more slowly since you hadn't jogged in awhile. You should at least take a walk this morning, loosen up those muscles; you'll feel much better once they get warmed up. Besides, the weatherman said the rain should hold off for another couple of hours."

He watched her a moment, had noticed of course how her gaze had found his bare skin. Propriety dictated that he button up his pajamas, but he liked the way her cheeks flushed when she looked at him, so he made no move to do so.

He really was emotionally and physically exhausted, not to mention having sore limbs, but how could he resist her when she showed up at his door, looking so young and pretty and happy to see him?

"Okay," he relented. "Give me a second to get ready. Make yourself at home."

He stepped aside so she could come into his room and gestured toward the easy chair. She walked in, looking around curiously. There was nothing personal in the room at all, unless you counted his familiar suit jacket on the back of a chair and the electric teakettle in the kitchenette. Jane grabbed his sweat suit and a t-shirt from his closet and excused himself to limp into the bathroom. Lisbon's eyes went from his retreating form to the rumpled bed. It was difficult not to imagine him in it, and from the condition of the bedding, he was obviously a toss and turner. Other, more sensual images flooded her thoughts, and she looked pointedly away.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The air was heavy with moisture, unusual for Sacramento's desert climate, and they both left their sweatshirts in Lisbon's car. They began their walk along the riverside path, Lisbon now in her form-fitting white t-shirt, Jane in his loose black one. He grinned at the symbolism.

"When the clouds let loose, we'll have what my dad used to call a real gully-washer," he said conversationally.

"You don't talk about your father much," she replied. "Did you have a good relationship with him?"

"Sometimes," he said enigmatically. He glanced at her, walking so slowly and so patiently beside him. That too was symbolic, he realized. Jane supposed it wouldn't hurt to talk about his dear old dad a little. After all, he'd been revisiting a lot of ghosts lately. "He taught me nearly everything I know about reading people. He was a genius himself in that way. But by the time Angela and I left the carnival, I hated the bastard."

"Oh," she said, so softly that Jane laughed.

"So we both had father issues, Lisbon. I suppose that makes us kindred spirits."

She looked up at him, startled at his admission. "Maybe," she said, but his words had given her a little thrill, for he'd finally voiced what she'd known since the day they'd met. Their deep, unspoken connection had been more and more on her mind of late, and she was inordinately pleased that he recognized it too.

"You know, you don't have to sacrifice your own exercise for me, Teresa. Jog ahead. I'm going to walk a ways more, then head back toward the car. You were right though, my legs are feeling better. Or maybe it was the handful of pills I took before we left."

She shook her head at him, but it would do no good to chastise him for overmedicating himself. "No," she replied to his suggestion. "I feel guilty enough for your current state without leaving you behind to walk alone. Besides, I'm enjoying your company this morning."

The smile he gave her made her heart skip a beat. He reached over and caught her ponytail, letting her silky hair slide through his fingers. "I always enjoy your company, Lisbon, even before you've had your morning coffee."

She visibly shivered at his touch, and she watched his eyes darken with unfamiliar emotion. He dropped his hand and faced forward as they walked on a bit in heavy silence.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" he asked abruptly, his eyes following a flying blue heron as it alighted on the river's shore.

Her first instinct was to come back with some smartass remark, but she realized he was totally serious.

"No crazier than anyone who went through the horrors that you have, Jane. The only real flashes of crazy I see are when Red John is involved. Then, you become reckless and obsessed, and I do fear for your sanity. But I can't blame you for it. I mean, I would have succumbed long ago."

"I don't think so," he said, and he smiled a little. "You're a much stronger man than I."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said wryly.

"As it was intended."

Then, to her total surprise, Jane reached for her hand, holding it tightly in its warmth. Her fingers wrapped around his, and she squeezed them companionably. Her entire focus rested on their entwined fingers, and she marveled at the oddly familiar sensation of his skin pressed to hers. It felt natural, as if they'd held hands every day of their lives.

They walked on in that way, Jane's pace increasing as his joints loosened up, their joined hands swinging between them.

"Is that what has made you so melancholy these last few days?" she asked, picking up the thread of their conversation. "You're questioning your mental state?"

"Yes," he said. "I've been…allowing myself to think of my wife more often. Normally I try to push her out of my mind, but she keeps coming back, like she doesn't want to be denied anymore." She wondered at the small smile that played about his lips, and he felt her hand tense in his. "It's okay, Lisbon. It's about time I faced a few truths instead of trying to hide from them."

She waited for him to continue, afraid at first to speak. When he didn't, she realized she was holding her breath, so she let it out on a tremulous sigh.

"What truths?" she ventured bravely, when she could no longer bear the suspense of his words hanging between them.

He stopped in the middle of the path and turned to her. "She is dead," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "But I…am not."

He took her other hand in his just as the heavens opened up with a loud crack of thunder. They were instantly drenched in the terrific downpour, and Jane held his face up to the sky with a childlike laugh of glee.

"Run back to the car, Lisbon," he called over the pounding of the rain on the pavement. "No sense in both of us getting soaked to the skin. Save yourself; I'll catch up eventually."

"No," she said, laughingly pushing her wet bangs from her shining green eyes. "We're in this thing together."

He reached up to help her, his hand alighting on her cool, damp cheek, and he paused, caressing it, her wide eyes holding him captive as the rain ran down the back of his shirt and dripped from his own sopping hair. His pulse pounded in his ears as he moved inexorably closer to her, and then he lowered his mouth to hers.

They both gasped at the first touch of his lips and she trembled beneath them. He tilted his head, tentatively experimenting with the best way to fit his lips to hers, and she made a soft sound of excitement in her throat when his tongue met the seam of her mouth. She opened for him, and his tender exploration quickly dissolved into mindless passion. He pulled her almost roughly into his arms, his mouth plundering hers as if he intended to devour her.

She tasted of rain and mint and sweet coffee, and Jane found he couldn't get enough of her flavor, of the amazing feeling of her small, wet body pressed tightly against his. The warm rain suffused them, igniting more than extinguishing the fire between them as their kiss went on and on…

They vaguely heard the sounds of speeding bicycles passing them, their frantic riders seeking shelter from the storm, some hollering curses as they narrowly avoided the oblivious couple. Other pedestrians ran around them, laughing at the romantic spectacle they made, like something out of a schmaltzy chick flick. But neither of them cared as they reveled in the rain and in each other.

When oxygen suddenly became a necessity, Jane reluctantly freed her mouth, resting his wet forehead against hers.

"Teresa," he breathed, eyes still closed tightly against the rain, hands on either side of her tiny waist as he struggled for control. Her own breathing was labored and loud, even over the din of the storm. She couldn't speak, but she began shivering in reaction.

"Hey, you're cold. Let's get you out of this mess."

She shook her head—she definitely wasn't cold—but he insisted. He lightly kissed the sweet tip of her nose and took her hand again, turning back toward the car, managing to walk quickly in spite of the pain. His desire for her comfort suddenly took priority over his own.

When they finally reached her car amid much laughter at how soaked they'd become, how amazing the rain was, she thumbed the remote key lock and they both slid into the Mustang, quickly dampening the leather seats. They looked at each other across the center console, mirth sparkling in their eyes as the rain seemed to increase even more, the sound nearly deafening on the roof. She was shivering now for real, and her cheeks turned red when his eyes took in her wet, white t-shirt. He could clearly see the outline of her breasts beneath her sports bra, and he swallowed as desire slammed into his groin.

"You, uh, should take that off and put on your dry sweatshirt," he suggested tightly.

"You too," she said, nodding to the black shirt plastered against his skin. When neither of them moved to do so, they both grinned at their mutual embarrassment. "I will if you turn your back," she said. The rain pouring down the windows would hide them from any other possible peeping Tom's.

"You too," he warned mockingly.

"Okay, on three," she said, their hands going to the hems of their dripping shirts. "One…Two….Three!"

He didn't turn away. When Lisbon finally managed to get the wet cloth awkwardly over her head she was treated to a half-naked Jane and a pair of smoldering sea green eyes staring blatantly at her transparent bra. He watched, dumbstruck, as she reached behind her back to unfasten the remaining garment, slipping the straps over her shoulders and letting it fall to her lap. She allowed him a good long look before turning to the backseat to find her dry sweatshirt. She could hear him literally panting across from her as he watched her maneuver her arms into the sleeves and pull the zipper up, hiding his unexpected glimpse into heaven.

His mouth went dry, and she grinned, despite her racing heart, at the utterly speechless Patrick Jane. She watched him as he sat frozen to the spot, and, feeling suddenly confident when she saw her feminine power over him, she reached back again to fish for his sweatshirt. She handed it to him, and his hand unexpectedly shot out to pull her awkwardly over the console, his mouth capturing hers with renewed lust.

His hands went to the elastic band at the back of her head, and he slid it roughly down her hair, the better to delve his seeking hands into its sleek wetness. He felt the cool touch of her hand sliding over his bare chest and it was his turn to shiver as their mouths mated sensually. Their hot breath fogged up the windows as they made out in the car like impatient teenagers, their hands eliciting soft moans and throaty cries. When one hand strayed to the zipper above her breasts, her own hand shot up to cover it, and she threw herself almost violently back against the driver's seat, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Too fast," she said breathlessly as his hand fell away.

He gulped and turned in his own seat, his body hard with unfulfilled desire. They sat in silence, trying to reason through their sudden onslaught of madness, the rain beating a steady tattoo above them.

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he said at last, when he could speak without his heart in his throat. "Mostly because I'm not."

"Me neither," she said, turning her head to look at him. His hair was surprisingly dark and straight when it was waterlogged, his skin pale in the dim light. Lisbon realized he wasn't quite as out of shape as she'd initially thought, for his chest and arms were nicely formed and had felt smooth beneath her hands. He was beautiful, just the way he was.

"I think it's letting up a bit," he observed, nodding toward the windshield. He slipped on his sweatshirt and zipped it up, welcoming the warmth.

"We'd better get dried and changed before we're late for work," she said. He reached for her hand and she gladly gave it to him, her pulse picking up again as he brought her knuckles gallantly to his mouth. He smiled at her with twinkling eyes, and she dimpled at him in return.

Sighing heavily, she reluctantly reclaimed her hand and found the key where it had fallen to the floor. The engine purred to life and they automatically buckled their seatbelts, each of them more than a little sorry to have to leave the cozy cocoon they'd created in the front seat of her Mustang.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

She parked outside his motel, leaving the motor running, the windshield wipers swishing soothlingly.

"You want to come up," he asked. "I'll make you some hot tea."

She was sorely tempted, but knew instinctively that it wouldn't just stop at tea, and neither of them was ready for that yet.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," she said.

He nodded knowingly. "You're probably right." His hand went to the door handle, but he couldn't resist leaning back toward her, dropping a lingering kiss on her cheek.

"I'll see you at the office," he whispered, meeting her eyes.

"Yes ,you will. And don't be late," she added dryly.

"Whatever you say, Boss," he replied in amusement. Then, taking a deep, fortifying breath, he opened the door and ventured back out into the rain.

He whooped as the water pelted him again, and Lisbon smiled, the merry sound echoing in her mind all the way back to her apartment.

A/N: I hope you liked this chapter and all its mushiness. I admit it is partially inspired by the first kissing scene in Simon Baker's wondrous movie, "Something New." (If you haven't seen it, get ye to a video store immediately, or at the very least check out the scene on Youtube. You won't be sorry!)

In case you haven't had the chance to read it yet, I've posted a tag for "Cheap Burgundy," and I think I'll be able to muster a tag for "Ruddy Cheeks," as well, so please be on the lookout for it soon. Thanks as always for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I was overwhelmed by the love you sent my way via chapter six's reviews. I'm glad the clichéd rain kiss didn't turn you off, lol. Thanks for reading. Now, on with the story…

**Chapter 7**

Patrick Jane was seldom nervous, but he found himself in just that state as he walked into the bullpen over an hour later, his eyes searching for and finding Lisbon, already hard at work in her office. Despite his best intentions, he had arrived late, probably due to the inordinately long shower he'd taken. In order to be able to come into work at all, he'd been forced to relieve some of his sexual tension beneath the hot spray of water. He'd tried unsuccessfully to blot out the sensual memory of his lips on hers, the glimpse of two perfect breasts, the feel of her body under his hands, the laughter in her eyes. Seeing her now just made it all come back in a hot rush.

To top that off, there had been no sign of Angela when he'd returned to his room, and he didn't quite know how to feel about that. Had she disappeared forever, denying him once again the opportunity to say good-bye? And now that he'd kissed Lisbon so passionately, had had such arousing thoughts about her, how could he ever face his wife again if he did see her? He was confused, excited, and guilty all at once, a combination of feelings he hated more than he could say.

He went to the break room to make some much-needed tea, and there she was. Angela.

"Hi," he mumbled, filling the kettle.

She grinned. "I saw what you've been up to this morning."

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, an uncharacteristic blush arising in his cheeks. He wondered which part of the morning she meant.

Her smile faded at his apology.

"Look at me, Patrick," she commanded in a tone he'd heard her use when Charlotte was in trouble. He complied obediently, almost amused.

"It's okay with me," she told him. "More than okay. Didn't it feel good to be so close to another human being again?"

"She wasn't you," he whispered.

"No, she wasn't. She was Teresa, and you're in love with her. I know you, Patrick Jane, and you wouldn't have kissed her like that if you hadn't been."

He hung his head, staring at the floor. "No," he admitted at last. "I wouldn't have." He looked straight at her then. "But I still love you."

She smiled sadly. "And I you, my love. But this is a new chance for you, a chance at a new life. Now go in there and tell her so."

"What? It's too soon." His eyes widened in panic, and he heard Lisbon's same words from the car coming out of his own mouth.

"Don't wait, Patrick. You never know how long you'll have with the ones you love."

"But—"

"You know better than to argue with me," she said, and he grinned. Before Lisbon, Angela had been the one woman in the world who could hold her own against him in an argument.

"Do you really think she'll believe me, after only one kiss?"

"Yes. After you do one more thing."

Her gaze went to the ring on his left hand, and he automatically grasped it with his right.

"No," he said adamantly. He turned his back on her and began preparing his tea, his hands unsteady as his went to the refrigerator for the milk. "Don't ask me to do that."

"To do what," asked Rigsby, rooting around the cabinets for a mid-morning snack.

Jane cleared his throat. "To make you coffee. You know I don't like coffee."

"But I didn't—" began the agent, baffled by the uncanny feeling that he was suddenly part of a conversation he knew nothing about.

Angela laughed at Jane's predicament and quick thinking. He hurriedly finished making his tea and hightailed it out of the break room, giving his wife a look of extreme agitation. Rigsby watched Jane leave, methodically chewing a chocolate cookie. He shrugged his shoulders; Jane could certainly be a very odd duck at times.

Jane took his place on his couch, sipping his tea and sneaking looks toward Lisbon's office.

"Taking off your ring doesn't mean our marriage never happened," said Angela, perching on the edge of his seldom used desk. "But what do you suppose it says to Lisbon?"

"She understands," Jane said under his breath. Van Pelt was involved with her work, and he hoped the clicking of her fingers on the computer keys was masking the fact that he seemed to be talking to himself. Cho was talking softly on the phone, likely to that ex-prostitute he was sleeping with that he didn't want anyone to know about, Jane thought absently.

"She understood _before_ you chose to embark on this next stage of your relationship," Angela was saying. "Now? Well, if you continue to wear your wedding band, she'll always wonder if you are truly free to be with her. Do you think that's fair to Teresa?"

He chose to consider her question rhetorical.

"Patrick?" she prompted, when he made his thoughts go blank. "Don't try to play your Jedi mind tricks on me, Patrick Jane. It didn't work when I was alive, and it sure as hell doesn't work now."

"It's too soon," he finally repeated. It had suddenly become his mantra.

"Too soon? You've had nearly nine years to take off your ring. I think it's become more of a symbol of your desire for revenge than your love for me, not to mention an excuse not to get close to anyone."

Her words cut him to the quick, but he knew she was right. Still, he was nothing if not stubborn, and in this case, just a wee bit terrified.

"Don't push me, Angela," he mumbled angrily, bringing his cup to his lips.

"You said you wanted me to be here to kick you in the ass when you needed it. Well, here I am, metaphorically kicking you. Now quit wasting both our times; get in there and talk to her. And if you're not going to take off that damn ring, at least explain your feelings about it to Teresa. I dare you."

Jane looked over at her, pondering how much he had missed her, but at the same time realizing something incredible. All these years he'd told himself he'd been missing her spunk, her humor, her love, her honesty, her stubbornness-but in truth, those qualities had been there with him all along. In Lisbon.

"That's right, Patrick," she said, reading his thoughts. "Now, at last, you see what's been right in front of you all along."

"I—I have seen it," he said softly. "How could I not? She's always reminded me of you a little, but until now it's been more painful than comforting."

The ghost nodded. "I know you claim not to believe in anything, but neither do you believe in coincidence. Don't you think it's a little suspicious that she came into your life at just the right moment? I mean, what are the odds, Patrick? Teresa was sent as a gift for you, and you've refused to acknowledge that she's more than just a cheap substitute."

Jane's cup clattered loudly into its saucer, and Van Pelt and Cho focused immediately upon him. The consultant's lips and jaw were tight with anger, his eyes blazing.

"What is it, Jane?" Van Pelt asked with concern.

Abruptly, Jane rose to his feet, shooting a livid glance toward his desk. He practically tossed his cup and saucer on the piece of furniture, then stomped heavily out of the bullpen in a rare display of temper. He didn't even acknowledge Van Pelt's question.

She looked toward Cho, still on the phone, who shrugged imperceptively. Van Pelt wondered if she should go after Jane or maybe tell Lisbon, who always managed to have a calming influence over him. She was about to get up, when, from the hallway, Van Pelt heard a sudden, familiar yelp. It was Rigsby.

"Hey!" he cried. A moment later he entered the bullpen, hot coffee staining his white dress shirt and striped tie.

Van Pelt grabbed some tissues off her desk and rushed toward him.

"Did you see that?" Rigsby cried. "Jane rushed past me like a dervish, bumped right into me and didn't even apologize. Geeze…this is hot."

She took the half-empty mug from his hands and began sopping up the spilled coffee from his stomach.

"Something's really bothering him," Van Pelt said worriedly.

"You think?" Rigsby said sarcastically. "This was my favorite shirt."

"It'll come right out if you get it under cold water."

"What about my third degree burns?"

Van Pelt began unbuttoning his shirt in the area of concern, and Rigsby felt his stomach muscles contract at the achingly familiar sensation of her soft hands on his bare skin.

"It's barely even red," she told him. "Go to the men's room and get some cold water on that too and you'll be fine."

He gulped when she looked up into his wide blue eyes, and something of the old spark passed between them. Van Pelt backed awkwardly away, moving toward the wastebasket near her desk to dispose of the wet tissues and set down his coffee cup. When she turned back to Rigsby, he was gone, leaving her alone with her skittering pulse.

From his desk, Cho sat, watching it all with his usual bland expression. He met Van Pelt's embarrassed gaze and merely shook his head at the foibles of mortal beings.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

Jane didn't stop until he'd reached the attic, didn't allow himself to think until he was alone to process his anger. Another thing had come back to him—how Angela had always known just how to push his buttons. And even though he'd always recognized it while it was happening, she'd never failed to work him up when she'd wanted to.

"Okay," he called to the air, once he'd entered his hideout. "Where the hell are you, Angela? That's one thing about you that I _don't_ miss—your damn hit and runs!"

But when she didn't appear he began pacing, mumbling to himself about wives and ghosts and women in general.

"Well, you left quite a trail of destruction down there," said Lisbon from the doorway. "Rigsby's fit to be tied and Van Pelt thinks you're about to do something desperate."

Jane stopped mid-pace and turned toward her voice. He stared at her a moment, noting her slightly pink cheeks at seeing him for the first time since their frantic kisses in the rain and in her car. Suddenly, he was purposefully striding toward her, the look in his eye so forceful and determined that Lisbon stepped back involuntarily. When he reached her, his hands came out to grasp her upper arms almost roughly, his eyes boring into hers.

"You are _not_ some cheap imitation," he ground out passionately, before his lips descended on hers. For a moment, she stood frozen under his unexpected assault, but very quickly her eyes fluttered shut and she opened her mouth beneath his. They moaned together, hands buried in smooth locks and riotous curls.

Things began to escalate quickly, and Lisbon found herself pushed back against the wall, his hands roaming her body, cupping and caressing in a frenzied effort to get as close as their clothing allowed. Meantime, his lips meandered to her cheek, then to her ear and neck, his hot breath making her tremble and cry out softly. One hand came down to lift her thigh, and she wrapped it around his hip as he pressed her harder against the wall. She could feel his desire even more fully now, and she gasped as his mouth found the valley between her breasts.

"Jane," she whispered, her heart pounding frantically. "Oh…God..."

Her impassioned words echoed in his ears and he realized suddenly where they were and what they were doing. He rested his head against her chest a moment, breathing heavily as he listened to her erratic heat. Her leg slid down his and he helped her right herself, then he stood and turned away from her, his hands in his jacket pockets as he stared blindly out the attic window.

"I uh, guess Cyclone Jane hit up here too," Lisbon murmured when she'd somewhat regained her composure.

He chuckled, letting out in a rush the breath he'd been holding. He ran his hand through his hair in agitation and turned back to her, admiring how sexy she looked with her mussed up hair and lips swollen from his kisses. It took everything in him not to grab her again and pick up where they'd left off.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to attack you like that," he said instead. "But what can I say, Lisbon, one taste just wasn't enough."

Her color heightened even more at his words, at what he could do to her now with just a look.

"What did you mean I'm not a cheap imitation?" she asked, remembering what he'd said before he'd fairly pounced upon her.

Jane's head dropped and he closed his eyes. "I don't want you to think that I'm using you to replace my wife. You're two different people. I mean there are obvious similarities, but you are two vastly different individuals."

"I didn't think that…" she replied, baffled.

His eyes met hers again. "You didn't?"

"No. And I didn't know your wife, didn't know we were alike at all. Frankly, I don't know how to feel about that," she admitted, eyes narrowing. "But where's this coming from, Jane? Did I do something wrong? Are you regretting-"

"No!" He cleared his throat, walked closer to her. "No. I just—well—what do you think of this?"

He held up his left hand for her to see the gold band he still wore.

"Your ring?"

_We're back to that again, _thought Lisbon, sighing internally.

"Yes, my ring. The one I still wear even though my wife's been dead for nearly a decade. Does this make you think I'm pathetic? How about unavailable? Incapable of moving on?"

Her lips quirked a little. "I don't think you're pathetic."

He dropped his hand and looked toward the ceiling as if entreating divine wisdom. He swore under his breath, looked contritely back at her, then back at his hand.

"I would never ask you to take that off," she told him seriously. "The way you feel about your wife is a part of you—will always be a part of you. I would never try to compete with that."

"Dammit, Teresa, that's just what I mean. You _aren't _competing with her. You don't have to even try. I don't _want_ another Angela…"

But as the words left his mouth, guilt slammed into him and he looked frantically around into the empty air. He paused to analyze what he'd said, how it had made him feel to admit these feelings with Angela likely listening. But to his surprise, Jane recognized that what he'd said was the absolute truth—and the guilt slowly melted away.

Lisbon was watching him curiously, watching the unusual display of emotions crossing his normally guarded face. His sea storm eyes alighted on her again, and he stepped toward her until he could touch her, but didn't.

"I want you," he said simply. "Only you."

She reached for his hand, needing the contact despite her surprise at his sudden admission.

"When did you come to this conclusion?" she asked, pulse racing.

"About seven years too late," he answered with a small smile.

She shook her head, bringing her free hand up to touch his cheek, absently tracing the small cut near his jaw that had nearly healed.

"You're not too late," she whispered huskily.

He turned his head and caught her hand, kissing her palm while her eyes widened at the intimacy. Then he lifted her chin with one finger and tenderly kissed her lips, purposefully restraining himself.

"Maybe we should go downstairs and find something to do before we do something upstairs neither of us is ready for," he suggested wryly. "You seem to bring out the animal in me, Lisbon."

Next thing he knew, her lips were ardently pressed to his and she was kissing him mindlessly, her hands locked around his neck to hold him there. A heated moment later, and she pulled away, smiling at his pole-axed expression.

"You seem to have the same effect on me…Jane."

She turned and sauntered out of the room, fully expecting him to follow her. A little way down the hall she stopped, realizing he wasn't right on her heels. Looking back, she saw that he still stood in his hideaway, staring intently after her.

"Aren't you coming?" she called.

"Uh…after that little number, you'll have to give me a few minutes," he admitted, and even from afar, she could see the embarrassed flush of his cheeks.

She laughed knowingly. "Okay. I'll see you in a bit."

"I told you, you are a cruel, avaricious woman," he said, just loudly enough for his words to reach her.

She gave him a dimpled smile and stepped lightly the rest of the way to the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hovering invisibly above the romantic scene she'd just witnessed, Angela Jane smiled.

A/N: Okay, the next chapter is definitely the last. You can beg, plead, and torture me all you want, but I really feel it must end where I originally planned, otherwise this story could meander and become boring and repetitive. That's why most of my stories are so short—I have a limited attention span, lol.

Anyway, thanks for reading and for all the incredible reviews. You are all so awesome! My next short-term project is a tag for "Ruddy Cheeks." Please look for it within the next few days.

A programming note: Simon Baker's movie, _Something New_ airs tonight (Wed.)on Oprah's Oxygen network, 10:30 central time. DON'T MISS IT!


	8. Conclusion and Epilogue

A/N: Well, here it is at last, the final chapter. I hope you don't mind that I supersized it. And I make no apologies for the following sentimentality. What can I say? I read too many romance novels, watch too many chick flicks. In short, I'm a typical American woman, lol.

**Chapter 8: Conclusion and Epilogue**

After a cyclone goes through, clean up usually begins immediately. And so it was that two hours after lunch, a package arrived for Rigsby via special messenger. Rigsby opened it cautiously, although security had likely been over it with a fine-tooth comb. The rest of the team looked on curiously.

Inside, wrapped in crisp white tissue paper, was a white dress shirt along with a beautiful silk tie, the labels proclaiming that a guy named Georgio had been proud enough to put his name on them. The shirt was his exact size, of course.

"Holy…"trailed off Rigsby, touching the garments reverently. He'd never owned anything so expensive.

"There's a note," Van Pelt pointed out.

Rigsby found the folded card and opened it, reading aloud:

_Excuse me, Rigsby._

_Jane_

"Wow, Wayne," said Van Pelt.

"Nice," said Cho.

From her place in the bullpen doorway, Lisbon smiled, feeling her eyes watering at Jane's extravagant gesture. Lisbon supposed she shouldn't be too surprised, however; she'd received a few extravagant gifts of her own from him over the years.

"I think I've found my new favorite shirt," Rigsby commented with a grin, looking from the faint coffee-stain on his stomach to his beautifully pristine acquisition. He caught Lisbon's eye.

"Say, where _is_ Jane?"

Lisbon shrugged. "I got a text from him after lunch. He said he had something to take care of and would be back tomorrow."

"What's up with him, Boss?" asked Van Pelt with concern.

"I have no idea," she said, her expression suitably baffled.

She turned away to walk back toward her office, the grin she'd been fighting slowly overtaking her face. She and Jane had shared lunch earlier, had bought sandwiches and lemonade from the vendor on the street and taken them to the park for a picnic. They'd laughingly hopped over puddles from the morning rain to find a mostly dry table in the sun.

She shivered now, thinking about how his head had blotted out that sun when he'd leaned toward her for a kiss.

She really didn't know where he'd gone, but when he'd dropped her back at HQ, he'd squeezed her hand and smiled warmly as he said good-bye. She hadn't questioned him, used to his mysterious disappearances, so was surprised when the text had come an hour later. She found she wasn't worried, perhaps because of the way her lips still tingled from his earlier attentions.

_If you love someone_, she thought, _you have to find a way to trust them_…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After the seven-hour drive, Jane arrived at his destination, tired but somehow feeling revived by the journey. He'd driven mostly in silence, and completely alone, lost in thoughts of the past, plans for the future, and how those plans seemed to revolve mostly around Lisbon rather than Red John. But the killer was definitely still part of his future, ghost or no ghost.

He sat in the driveway of his Malibu home, looking at the place where he'd spent so many happy moments, and he realized he hadn't allowed himself to think of the good times in years. He remembered when he'd first bought the place, surprising Angela when he'd opened the front door with his shiny new keys. She hadn't been happy with him at all, at first, and they'd had a horrible fight. How dare he make such a major decision without her input? He shook his head and smiled, remembering how she'd eventually come around, how they'd made up on the empty living room carpet.

His mind flashed forward to the day they'd brought Charlotte home from the hospital, how he'd been nearly petrified with fear for what he'd gotten himself into. How the hell was he supposed to be a good father, when he himself had had such a lousy example? That he'd been and overprotective parent would be an understatement, and Angela had spent almost as much time seeing to his needs as she had to baby Charlotte's.

The years had passed, and he'd become more relaxed with his new role, more successful in his business. He wanted to be closer to his family, so he began working often out of his home, taking summers off to take the family to Europe , to Asia, convinced that Charlotte's education wouldn't be complete without exposure to the world beyond California's shores. He was proud of his family, proud of himself because he knew he was such a good provider, even while he tamped down the guilt he felt for how he made his money. And then, all at once, the very reasons for his existence had been taken from him, and he'd found himself alone, his previous pride fading to self-loathing and obsession.

"No more of that, Jane," he said to himself.

He took a deep breath, released it, and got out of the Citroen. He went round to the trunk, pulling out a can of white paint and a paint roller. Thus armed, he climbed the familiar steps to the front door. The keys on his ring weren't quite as shiny now, and when he stepped into the foyer, it no longer felt like home, but then, it hadn't for a long time. He paused, waiting for the horror of that long-ago night to wash over him anew, but for once it didn't, and he shut the door behind him, flipping on the lights.

"Angela?"

"Yes," said the ghost, materializing from the direction of the kitchen.

He smiled at her. "I figured you'd be here."

"I'm always here when you are."

"I realize that now," he said, his grin turning melancholy. Looking back, he knew he'd felt her presence in this otherwise empty house, but had resisted allowing himself to acknowledge it; it had been much too painful to think she had been watching him here, so weak, so pathetic.

"I'm glad I don't have to hide from you anymore," she said.

"Me too."

She nodded toward his painting supplies. "Doing some late-night home improvement?"

"I think it's about time, don't you?"

"Yes, Patrick, I do."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the paint was nearly dry, he dragged his mattress into the guest bedroom. He'd never slept in this room before—the only room in the house with no memories attached, painful or otherwise. It was the first time in years he'd slept through the whole night without medication. Perhaps it was because his last thoughts before drifting off had been of Lisbon, and not of Angela, or Charlotte, or even Red John.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He rose early in the morning to the sound of the ocean, made himself some tea, and sat on the patio steps in his boxer shorts, watching the tide go out. It was chilly out there, but he didn't notice it, just reveled in the soothing music of the waves and the wind, punctuated by the calls of seagulls flying overhead.

When his cup was empty, he rose and stretched, then made his way to the beach. The sand was cool beneath his feet, becoming cooler still as he found the water's edge. He began to run. His body quickly warmed as his blood began to pump, and he only grinned at the odd looks he received from other joggers, who noted his lack of appropriate attire and footwear.

He'd gone perhaps a mile before he slowed to a brisk walk, then, a half-mile more and he stopped. He stood panting with exertion, but he felt good, invigorated even. He was sorely tempted to dive into the ocean, but without a wetsuit, he knew he'd freeze his ass off. Besides, he thought, as if hearing Lisbon's voice, that would be taking symbolism just a tad too far.

He caught sight of Angela out of the corner of his eye as she stood there beside him, her long hair blowing in the wind.

"How are you this morning, Patrick?"

"Good," he said, meaning it for the first time since he could remember.

They were quiet a moment, looking out at the wrinkled surface of the Pacific, and Jane's right hand began idly twisting the ring on his left. It occurred to him now why he'd really come out here, and he slipped the golden band from his finger.

He looked at Angela, and she smiled her encouragement. "It's okay, Patrick. I think it's more than fitting."

His eyes welled with tears and he allowed them to fall unchecked down his cold cheeks. The wind dried them as quickly as they fell.

"I have to do this," he told her. "Otherwise, I might be tempted to retrieve it, and I—I can't do that to Lisbon, or to myself anymore. Or," he said finally, "to you."

"Thank you," she said, and he saw that her face too was wet with tears.

He held the ring tightly in his fist, afraid now to look at it since he'd made his decision. He left Angela in the dry sand and walked closer to the edge of the water, barely feeling how icy cold it was as the small waves of the ebbing tide swirled around his ankles. Then, before he could change his mind, he reared back his arm and flung his hand forward, releasing the ring at the last second, watching it plop into the distant waves and disappear.

When he turned back toward where Angela had stood, she was gone.

"Good-bye, Angela," he whispered to the wind.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was after ten o'clock at night when the knock came on Lisbon's apartment door. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the peephole, surprised at the identity of her late-night visitor.

"Hey," she said, opening the door.

"Hey," he said, his gaze taking in her familiar old football jersey, especially where it stopped mid-thigh. "Glad you're still up."

He was wearing the same suit and shirt from yesterday, and he looked tired, though not haggard as he usually did when she found him thus attired. He grinned at her and brought from behind his back a basket of giant navel oranges.

Her eyes brightened at the treat—they both shared a weakness for fresh fruit.

"Where on earth did you find these beauties?" she said, ushering him inside and inhaling the fresh citrus fragrance.

"Roadside stand, long about Bakersfield," he said. "I had to smell them all the way up here, and I confess I couldn't help eating one or two."

He knew he'd lost her at _Bakersfield_, because she was trying not to look at him now like he'd been with a lover. He avoided her eyes and walked past her to her couch, making himself at home as if he'd been there more than a handful of times. Lisbon was still standing in the open doorway, trying to wrap her mind around why he had felt the need to go to Southern California. There was only one thing she knew of that would take him there.

"You're letting in the cold air, Lisbon," he said softly. She turned back toward the door, closing and locking it automatically, then followed him into her cozy living room. She sat at the other end of the couch from him, tucking her attractively muscled legs beneath her. Jane's heart pounded, both from being in her presence as well as from the residual effects of the long road that had led him there.

He swallowed, nervous about what he had to tell her. Then her eyes fell to his left hand, to the glaring white tan line where his wedding band used to be.

"Jane—" she began.

"It was time, Teresa," he said. "I have no regrets. I have a feeling this is what Angela would have wanted for me to do."

Lisbon's eyes grew misty, and she closed them briefly, blinking back tears. She reached for his cool hand with both of hers, lightly rubbing it between them as if to warm it.

"I imagine she would," she told him. And then, because she had the curiosity of a detective: "Did you leave it in Malibu?"

"Sort of," he said, grinning slightly. "It might have drifted out to Santa Catalina by now."

"Oh, Jane."

He squeezed one of her hands. "Stop. You're gonna make me cry too, and I'm done with crying over this."

She sniffed, releasing one hand to wipe at her eyes self-consciously. "Sorry…So that's what you had to take care of?"

"Yes. That, and more. I put my house on the market, for about half what I paid for it. In this economy, I'll be lucky to get _that_."

She looked at him in shock. She'd just been there with him a few months before, when she'd made the painful decision to use the memory of his former suffering there to bring him out of his temporary fugue state. She'd felt guilty at the time for doing it, but she had selfishly wanted to keep him with her, unable to bear the thought that when he came out of his amnesia and remembered everything, he might either have been all alone, or worse, with some floozy that really didn't give a damn about him.

Because of the power that house had over him, Lisbon knew this step was almost as big as the disposal of his ring. She tried to calm her heart, tried to tamp down the hope that rose within her like a freshly uncovered spring.

"The realtor said she'd handle everything, even the sale of my car collection," he was saying, trying to cover his nerves with words. "I won't ever have to go down there again if I don't want to."

"Good," she managed. "I'm really happy for you, Jane, if that's the right sentiment."

"Yes," he grinned. "It is. And do you know why?"

She could only shake her head as he shifted closer to her on the couch, his eyes intent on hers.

"Because everything thing I want most in the world is here, in this room right now."

"It is?" she said inanely.

He smiled to himself at her sudden loss of focus. It must be because he was nibbling on her ear, and both their pulses were racing toward one inevitable finish line.

"You know, Lisbon," he whispered, his breath stirring the fine tendrils near her ear. "A little birdie told me you were in love with me."

She stilled at his words, her hands coming up to shakily push on his chest so she could look at him.

"What? Who, uh—who told you that?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter, really. I've known this for some time, myself."

Her blush moved from excitement to embarrassment.

"I can only deduce by your reaction that my conclusion was accurate. Well, glad to see I haven't lost my touch. It was all there, I suppose," he said, punctuating each phrase with a warm kiss to each corresponding area of her sweetly enamored face. "In your eyes. In your flushed cheeks. In your adorable dimples. In your deep, sexy kisses…"

He was caught up momentarily in that last point of interest, and he pressed her back down onto the couch, moving her body more comfortably beneath his as he devoured her lips languidly, his hands brushing back her soft hair.

"It's okay to admit it now, Teresa," he said, lifting his lips a fraction. "Because I believe I feel the exact same way."

"I need to hear you say it before _I _believe it, before I risk embarrassment not hearing it back," she told him, her eyes sparkling into his. "I don't possess your mad psychic skills, remember?"

"Seriously? You're not just going to take my word for it? Why, Lisbon, that is truly hurtful. Then again, actions do speak louder—" he began, diving in to resume his exploration of her intoxicating mouth.

She chuckled, turning her face away and holding him back with her deceptively strong hands.

"We could say it together," she suggested.

"Now that's romantic," he said rather sarcastically, trying in vain to sidetrack her with his hand sliding up her bare thigh. She clamped her legs together and gave him a look of feigned irritation.

"Fine," he relented, rolling his eyes. "You count to three…"

"One," she breathed unsteadily. "Two….Th—"

"I love you," he blurted, before she'd finished saying the number. To his amazement, he hadn't choked on the words.

"You do?" she said, surprised even though she'd been expecting it. He looked heavenward.

"And still the woman doesn't believe me. I didn't think we still had trust issues, Lisbon."

"A girl can never trust a conman completely," she told him.

"Me? This from the girl who just tricked me into confessing my love, leaving me hanging out to dry. Never mind, Lisbon," he said wickedly, his hand tickling her thighs again, then sliding up to her ribs. "I have ways of making you—"

"Stop!" she said, laughing helplessly. "Okay, okay! I love you already!"

His hands stilled and he looked down into her face, her eyes alight with love and laughter. He swallowed at the wonderful gift he'd been given, a gift he still was coming to terms with believing he deserved. His lips formed a small smile.

"Well, now that's out of the way…I must warn you, Lisbon, I intend to kiss you until you tell me to stop, so if you have anything else to say, you might want to get it off your uh…chest…" His eyes cast down to the feminine anatomy in question, rising and falling quickly beneath her jersey, then slowly moved to her eyes, green and glittering in the light of the table lamp.

"I have nothing more to say to you, and I don't think I will again…at least not for a very long time," she promised, lowering her hands and letting his hard body fall against hers. He gasped at the sudden, intense contact. She pulled his mouth back down to meet her lips once again, and, true to her word, she didn't utter anything beyond a moan for a good hour at least.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Angela's ghost watched her husband sleeping peacefully in Teresa Lisbon's bed, the petite CBI agent curled around him much as she had once done. It was a sweet sort of torment to see this, but a necessary one, for all of them. With this final step he had made, they could all move on.

She bent over and kissed his warm temple.

"Good-bye to you, my love," she whispered, her image fading away like shadows into darkness.

Something awoke Jane in the night and his eyes blinked slowly open. For a moment, he felt disoriented in the pitch-black room. Then he felt the warm woman in his arms and remembered everything in vivid, sensual detail. He felt a cool, familiar tingling on his forehead, and he knew instinctively that Angela had been there one last time, to wish him well, to set him free…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took two days for Jane to find a chance to talk to Van Pelt alone. He approached her when she'd come in early from lunch, after she'd put her purse in her desk drawer. He glanced in the direction of Lisbon's office, noting she was watching them curiously from her window.

"Grace," he said. "You have a minute?"

"Sure, Jane. What's up?"

He glanced down at the orchid on her desk, where the necklace Craig O'laughlin had given her hung from its limbs like a Christmas ornament.

"You came to me for advice a few months back, and I'm afraid I steered you in the wrong direction. Or, more precisely, I steered you not at all."

"Hm?" she said, at first unsure what he was talking about. Then: "Oh." She reached out and touched the heart-shaped charm in remembrance of their long ago conversation.

"Listen to me, Grace," said Jane, his voice low and earnest. "Grieve, mourn, get over O'laughlin however you must, but get on with your life. Don't waste nine years angry, embittered, and alone…like I did."

She looked at him in awe, seldom having heard Jane so impassioned, unless Red John was at the center of it. She wondered where this was coming from.

"Thank you," she said hesitantly. "But how-how do you do that?" Her eyes welled. "How do you free yourself from such a life?"

His hands came up to clasp both her shoulders and he looked intently into her brown eyes. "You forgive yourself," he whispered. "A little at a time, every day, until the ghosts stop haunting you and someone else comes into your life who loves you just as much. They won't be the same, but at the very least, you'll be alive again. At most, you might find that it's possible that a person can have _two_ soul mates in one lifetime."

"Really?" she asked shakily.

"Yes," he said, taking the girl in his arms and giving her the comfort she'd been seeking for months. He rubbed her back in hypnotic circles while she calmed herself.

A moment later, Rigsby and Cho entered the bullpen, Rigsby telling a joke to Cho, who briefly smiled at the punch line.

"Isn't that hilarious? I heard it on the radio this—"

He paused when he saw the remarkable vision of Jane and Van Pelt embracing. At the sound of his voice, Van Pelt pulled away, reaching for a tissue to dab at her eyes.

"Everything okay here?" Rigsby asked curiously, and, to Jane's mind, rather jealously.

"Fine," Van Pelt said. "Jane was just—I'm fine, really."

"Okay..." But Rigsby wasn't completely convinced

"Thank you," she muttered to Jane. He nodded and caught Lisbon's eye, who had been watching the scene with blatant curiosity. He excused himself from the team and headed for her office.

As he had since the day he first opened up to her about Hightower and Todd Johnson, he wanted to tell her everything, which was what you did when you loved someone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**Epilogue**

_Six years later…_

Sometimes, when Jane looked back on those days when he'd made the decision to move on with his life, he would wonder if he'd really seen Angela's ghost at all. It could very well have been his subconscious, manifesting his inner turmoil in the guise of a "ghost." But then he would be at the ocean with his new family, watching little Angelo playing in the sand with his mother, and he would feel a familiar presence. It was then that he knew that she was somehow still there, watching over him, smiling her approval.

Lisbon had told him once that she could always tell when Angela was nearby, because Jane would get a certain faraway look on his face. She would come up to him where he sat on the beach and sit beside him, wrapping one sun-warmed arm around his firm waist, leaning her head on his strong shoulder.

"Hey," she would say. "Where are you?"

He would come back to her and bestow upon her that wide smile that still made her melt.

"I'm here, Teresa," he would say. "Right where I'm supposed to be."

About a year after they'd married, he'd told her of his ghostly visitor, and she hadn't laughed. In fact, she'd believed him wholeheartedly.

"See," he would reassure her, focusing completely on pressing his lips to hers.

On this occasion, their son interrupted them, as a five-year-old is wont to do his parents.

"Aren't you guys ever gonna quit doing that," said their dark-haired son in disgust. "Come on, Daddy, let's go swimming," he urged, tugging on Jane's hands. "You promised to teach me how to body surf today, and if you don't do it, Uncle Rigsby said _he_ would. He taught Ryan two years ago."

"And you don't want Uncle Rigsby to be one up on you in the Daddy Wars," said Lisbon, tongue firmly in cheek. The two men had started a game of one-upmanship shortly after Angelo was born, and with Cho goading on the competition, it had gone to extreme lengths on more than one occasion.

Jane gave her an annoyed look, but his eyes sparkled green with mischief, just like she saw in her little boy. With his father's curly hair and dimpled smile, she knew it was only a matter of time before she'd be fighting off the girls. Maybe with a tazer.

"Never mind Daddy," Angelo said with an exaggerated sigh, his eyes turning sly. "Uncle Cho says you're gettin' too old to teach me anything anyway."

"Oh he did, did he," said Jane, eyes narrowing at the betrayal.

"Yeah, and he said somethin' 'bout old dogs learnin' tricks…"

Teresa laughed at her son's antics—a chip off the old block in the manipulation department.

"Go on you two," she said to Jane, when he looked longingly at the inviting picture she made in her black bikini. He'd just been fantasizing about kissing her senseless in the warm sand. "I'm gonna take a nap anyway," she told him. She reached for her sun hat in preparation for a short siesta.

Jane relented at last, but gave his wife another kiss that had his son fake gagging behind them.

"Keep that spot warm for me," he whispered.

"I'll do that," she grinned, her eyes alight with sensual promise.

As she watched her two men run laughing to the water, she found herself looking heavenward.

"Thank you for letting him go, Angela," she said to the sky.

And as she always did when she offered up her gratitude to Angela Jane, Teresa felt an overwhelming sense of…peace.

**THE END**

A/N: Thanks so much for following me throughout this story. It really was fun to write. For those of you who are wondering about where Red John was in my epilogue, I thought about adding his fate, but I couldn't find a way to make it go with the flow, so to speak. I would have had him dormant for the past six years, as if he too had given Jane his freedom. Or maybe, Angela had had something to do with it….

Also, while I'm not much for sonfics, the whole time I was writing this conclusion, I was either listening to or humming "I Believe," by Diamond Rio. It's one of the most beautiful, touching songs I've ever heard, and I was inspired by it to write this chapter. I cry every time I hear it :).

I'm not quite sure what my next "Mentalist" story will be, but I honestly don't know when inspiration will strike. In the meantime, please check out my recent tags and future tags. For you new readers, I'd love for you to read my older stuff—just click on my profile and go to town! See you next time…


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